The Ripple Effect
by Keesha
Summary: Hetty sends Sam and Callen on a mission that has major repercussions. Set after season 6 episode 1. Complete.
1. Chapter 1

_No infringement of any data rights is implied._

_Author's Note: I will do my best to post one chapter a day until the story is complete, per my usual MO. As always, let me know what you like, where I tripped up and your thoughts as the story progresses. Like everyone on this site, I really love reviews and appreciate when someone takes the time to post one. Having said that, let us begin. It was a dark and stormy night… (Only kidding. That comes later)._

This was the part of her job Hetty Lange hated with a passion and what sometimes drove her to contemplate getting out of the business for good. Solemnly staring at the big screen in the Ops Center, Hetty sighed inwardly, as she made the tough decision in her mind, but when she spoke, her voice was solid and authoritative. "Call them Ms. Jones. Send them to the scene, but don't tell them the agent involved."

The young, perky, redhead raised her petite hand to press the button on her headset then hesitated, not completing the action. Not one to often question a direct order, Nell felt compelled in this instance. "Do you think that is wise, Hetty?"

Eric, the other technological wizard, who was sitting at his keyboard, rotated his chair to observe the two women. He too felt conflicted by his boss' direction though he hadn't had enough courage to question Hetty. However, he was very eager to hear the answer, now that Nell had put the question on the table.

Setting her mouth in a firm, straight, line, Hetty stared at the big screen as if by sheer willpower she could change the image in front of her to a happier scenario. "Only time will tell. Please carry out my order."

Nell's finger wavered for a fraction of a second again before she tapped her headset and dialed Callen's cell. It wasn't that she was questioning Hetty, as much as she was wondering how Callen would react. The senior agent had major issues when he was not fully read-in on a mission. Things usually got ugly between the blond agent and whomever he felt had deliberately withheld the data. Callen wouldn't blame her, Nell knew, since she was only obeying orders, but he wasn't going to be as forgiving with Hetty.

Callen was riding shotgun, with Sam, in the sleek, black, Challenger, on their way into work. His phone buzzed and after a quick glance at the screen, he pushed the green icon. "What's up Nell?" he asked his voice casual and relaxed.

Nell's voice, on the other hand, was professional and terse as she relayed Hetty's instructions to the team lead. "We have a hostage situation. You and Sam are to head there directly. I sent the address to your phones."

One didn't have to be a great detective to pick up the negative vibe in Nell's voice. Frowning slightly, Callen checked the address on his phone's screen before reading it aloud to Sam who was driving.

"That's a residential area. Mostly older apartment buildings," Sam mused as he quickly reversed the Challenger's direction, heading for the new location Callen had provided to him.

Switching his phone to speaker so Sam could listen as he drove, Callen asked the analyst for more detail. "What else can you tell us Nell?"

Back in Ops, Nell glanced nervously at Hetty whose gaze remained firmly fixed on the large screen, offering no support on how the analyst should handle the request for more data. "Not much Callen." Nell hedged. "The agent is being held at gunpoint on the fire-escape, 8th floor. One assailant as near as we can tell."

In his rush to get to the scene, Sam cornered the Challenger tightly and Callen nearly dropped the phone as he was involuntarily shifted in his seat by the car's swaying motion. "Who's the agent?"

Nell paused again before answering the question, a gesture not lost on Callen. "We have limited camera coverage."

A sideways glance at his partner confirmed Sam was thinking the same thing as Callen; Nell was lying. Convinced the folks back in Ops knew exactly who the agent was and for some reason weren't sharing, made the muscle in Callen's lower jaw twitch; these types of Ops never turned out good.

"Kensi and Deeks are on their way but you guys will arrive on the scene first. Be careful," and with that Nell abruptly hung up.

Callen was surprised to see 'call ended' flash on his screen and it left an incredibly uneasy feeling in the pit of his stomach. "What the hell is going on Sam? This can't be good."

"No, it can't," Sam agreed, as annoyed as his partner but a bit more willing to trust there was a good reason for Nell withholding information.

Sam was breaking all land speed records and they were now only three minutes out from the address. "I hate this feeling," Callen muttered darkly, staring out the window as the streets flashed by.

Sam maneuvered the car around a slower vehicle before accelerating the big, shiny, muscle car again. "What feeling?"

Callen drummed his fingers on his leg. "Not knowing what is going on. Feeling like information is being deliberately withheld from us."

Covering the rising nervousness he was also feeling, Sam gave a little laugh at his partner's statement. "You're joking right? Your whole life is about missing information to include your first name."

A small smile twitched in the corners of Callen's mouth as he recognized Sam's joke for what it was; stress relief. "Yeah, well it doesn't mean I have to like it. See this is why I don't share with you. You're not supportive."

Further conversation was put on hold as they approached the address and the two agents quickly scanned the locale. It was an older section of town, though not a bad one. The address Nell provided was a twelve-story apartment building, at least forty years old but neat in appearance. There was already a LAPD police unit out front with one officer in the car and one standing next to it staring upwards at the side of the building.

The apartment complex had an old-style, black, metal fire-escape running along the outside of its' red, brick, facade and that was where the officer's attention was focused. Sam pulled over to the curb and the two men quickly exited the Challenger gazing upwards at the scene unfolding on the 8th floor landing of the fire-escape. They could see a woman, who must be the agent, being held at gun point on the fire-escape landing. The assailant had a hoodie covering their head; at this distance it was impossible to id either person on the platform.

Callen flashed his badge at the police officer standing alongside the cruiser. "NCIS. What can you tell us?"

"Not much more than you can see yourself. We just arrived on the scene." The middle-aged, dark-haired, LAPD officer was joined by his lanky, red-headed partner who had finished radioing the situation to their dispatch.

"Back up and a hostage negotiation team are on its way," the second officer informed them. "You guys got here fast. How did... "The officer's question was cut short as a gun shot rang out and the victim on the fire-escape stumbled back against the railing. Before the echo of the shot had died out, Callen and Sam had drawn their guns and were sprinting towards the building's entrance.

They swiftly moved thru the lobby, past the elevator, heading for the stairs. "You go to the apartment. I'll go two floors up. High ground. On the fire-escape," Callen barked as the two fit agents rapidly bound up the stairs. A curt nod from Sam showed he understood the plan. When they hit the 8th floor, Sam peeled off thru the door that led out to the hallway while Callen continued upwards on the well-worn, wooden staircase.

When they had been outside, Sam had looked at the structural design of the building so he had a pretty good idea which apartment he needed to enter to reach the fire escape where the agent was being held hostage. Stopping in front of what he judged was the correct door; he reached out his hand and gave the knob a covert turn to see if it was locked. It turned slightly so he knew it wasn't secured, but Sam didn't attempt to enter yet; he had wait for Callen to get into position so they could make a coordinated, two front attack. This strategy would give them the best chance of saving the agent being held at gun point.

Breathing heavily, Callen burst out of the stairwell on the 10th floor, quickly scanning the hallway. He was relieved to find it empty; one less complication to deal. Like Sam, he had a good idea which apartment he needed to enter and he moved down the hallway over the well-worn carpet to its location.

Testing the door, he found it locked and he made a rapid decision between pick the lock or break the door; kind of like the a roadblock on the show 'The Amazing Race' that he seen once or twice while hanging out with Sam's family. Jasmine, Sam's daughter, thought that he and her Dad should apply to be contestants on the show; she was sure they'd win. Callen didn't disagree with her assessment, though the producers of the show might not hundred percent approve of the methods he and Sam would use to win. It would, however, make for exciting TV.

Since speed was of the essence, Callen went with break the door. Contrary to popular belief, kicking down a door was not as easy as the all cop shows on TV made it out to be, unless, maybe, you were built like Sam. Callen took aim at the lock, firing off two rapid shots before he proceeded to use his foot to force open the door.

Quickly bringing his gun to bear, he entered the living room which contained an eclectic conglomeration of furniture. However, other than the mismatched pieces, the room was empty of people. After he cleared the living room, then the rest of the apartment, he headed back into the main room.

Rapidly moving to the window that led to the fire-escape, Callen shoved his gun into his back holster. Scanning the window frame, he saw it was not locked, so he reached out and attempted to push up on the frame; the window didn't budge an inch. Gritting his teeth, he tried again, throwing all his weight into his arms and shoulders but the window stayed firmly wedge shut.

He took a small step back and surveyed the whole window frame to see what he missed. His eye was drawn to some splintering on the edges of the window's painted, wooden frame and upon closer examination, he spotted the nail heads. Damn, some idiot had nailed the window shut.

Cursing, he drew his hand inside the protection of his leather coat sleeve and smashed the glass with his forearm. It made more noise than he would have liked but it was too late to worry about that now. He cleared the jagged edges of glass as best as he could before drawing his weapon and stepping thru the window onto the fire escape landing.

The agent being held hostage on the landing two stories below heard the glass break so when Callen stepped out on to the landing, she looked directly up at him. Though he kept his mask in place, his heart missed a beat when he finally identified the agent in distress.


	2. Chapter 2

Contrary to what Nell had told Sam and Callen, the people in the Ops Center had an excellent view of what was transpiring on the apartment's fire-escape. The Ops team watched from the safety of their tech cave, as Callen stepped out onto the landing and looked downward. Hetty, who knew her agents inside and out, was able to discern by his body movement, the moment Callen discovered he knew the agent being held at gun point. She also knew the fact that she had withheld that information from him was not going to sit well with her senior agent.

Callen quickly recovered from the shock of seeing the victim and focused on how to save her. Since she was a trained agent, Callen knew she could work with him to help salvage this volatile situation. However, it nagged at the back of his mind, that when she had looked up and recognized him, an odd expression had flitted across her face. He didn't know what to make of it, but he was willing to bet it was important, though he had no clue why. It had almost seemed like she was afraid for him for some reason, though he rationalized that was reading a lot into a little glance. He didn't have time for paranoid thoughts, so he pushed it out of his mind; the only thing that mattered was extracting her safely from this situation.

As not to give away Callen's position any more than she already had, the victim quickly refocused her eyes away from the agent on the landing above her and back on the person holding the gun to her head. The bullet wound the shooter had already inflicted in her arm was throbbing but she didn't dare move, unsure what would trigger the shooter to fire again. In her mind, there had been no rhyme or reason to the first shot, as she had been fully cooperating with the shooter.

Callen studied the shooter from his position and was convinced that the person holding the gun was another woman, not that it really mattered. With the gun that close to the victim's head; any shot would be lethal whether the person holding the gun was a male or a female. Couple that with the fact the shooter had already pulled the trigger once and you had an unstable, unpredictable, bad situation.

Callen's plan was to lean over the fire-escape and kill the shooter with a bullet shot to the head. He was confident he could make the shot and if he warned female agent as he pulled the trigger, she could move out of the way in case the shooter squeezed the trigger before his bullet took her out. Ideally, Sam should rush the door at the same time Callen took the shot, adding a further distraction. The blond agent only hesitated a fraction of a second before pulling out his phone and calling Sam.

"I'm in position," he whispered into the phone. "After I hang up, count to five and rush the door."

Sam knew his partner as well as Hetty did and in some respects even more, and he didn't like what he heard in Callen's voice. There was an underlying hint of tension and nervousness in his partner's tone that didn't make sense to Sam. When Callen was in the moment, he was totally focused and professional; something had his partner unusually rattled. However, this wasn't the time or place for a prolonged conversation so Sam simply asked, "What are you going to do?"

"Shoot the bastard. Go on five," Callen growled, then disconnected the phone, shoved it in his back pocket, placed both hands on his gun and took aim. He counted, in hopefully the same cadence as Sam, and when he got to five he yelled, "Michelle duck!" and squeezed off two deadly shoots.

Simultaneously, Sam broke down the door and sprinted across the apartment to the window in time to see the shooter crumble to the metal deck as his wife threw herself sideways against the fire escape staircase.

"Michelle!" a surprised Sam screamed as he burst thru the open window. As much as he wanted to run to his wife's side, his training remained first and foremost in his mind and he cleared the gun from the vicinity of the downed shooter and ensured the area was secure.

Sam couldn't see the shooter's face because she had landed face down on the fire escape, but he had no doubts she was dead; the head wound, which was visible, was not survivable. Sam shot a quick glance up at his partner and shook his head 'no' so Callen would know he was successful, not that his partner probably had any doubts. After he did that, he rushed to Michelle's side and helped gently lower her to the second metal step of the fire-escape stairs. Whipping out his cell phone, he dialed Eric and told him to send an ambulance ASAP. Eric, who had been watching at Ops, had already dispatched one when the first shot had been fired. Sam hung up and focused back on his beautiful wife. He saw the growing bloodstain on the upper portion of her left arm. "How bad?"

Michelle, like her husband, was a highly trained agent and not given to hysterics. She approached her injury in a calm and rationale manner. "Not bad. It hurts, but I think it missed the bone."

Sam couldn't stop himself; he reached over, gathered her in his arms and gave her a careful hug. Michelle leaned her weary head against his powerful shoulder for a few seconds, releasing some of her tension before letting out a sigh and pushing away. What was coming next was going to be hard; not as much for her and Sam, as the man two floors up on the fire-escape. Given everything she knew about her husband's partner, having been around him in good times and bad over the last six years, she knew he was going to be devastated, even though he would never show it to the outside world. Life, once again, had just dealt Callen a horrible hand.

After Callen took the shot and Sam let him know he was successful, he started making his way down the fire-escape and arrived on the landing as Michelle was extracting her body from Sam's embrace. Callen was getting ready to scoot around her to go see who the dead shooter was, when she stuck out her good arm and blocked his way. "No Callen," she said softly yet firmly.

He stopped, respecting her barrier, but his face showed his confusion on why she was impeding his way. Her eyes locked on his and he saw sorrow and pity, two emotions he hated directed towards him. A nauseous feeling started to grow in the pit of his stomach and he swallowed hard.

"Let Sam," Michelle instructed Callen.

Sam didn't understand why his wife was doing it, but he understood that she wanted him, not Callen, to id the body first. With trepidation that could easily be seen in his normally fluid frame, the tall man walked over and flipped the body just enough so he could see the face. He couldn't stop a small shudder from running thru his muscular frame and Callen immediately picked up on it. "Who is it, Sam?" he demanded hating to be kept in the dark. Callen was a rip-the-Band-Aid off quickly guy; he didn't like bad things to be dragged out.

Letting the body roll back so the face was no longer visible, Sam straightened up and turned to face Callen. After years of being partners, Callen was adept at reading Sam's facial expressions and he knew he was not going to like what came next. "Who is it, Sam?" he demanded again, his body tense, his voice strained.

Nodding at his wife, Michelle dropped her arm to let Callen pass. The shorter man calmly walked within a few inches of Sam and stared at the big guy who was still visibly shocked by identity of the assailant.

Sam had an internal debate going on whether to tell him, or let Callen see for himself. Sam knew even if he told Callen who it was, the blond man would still have to confirm it for his own sanity, so Sam stepped aside and let Callen pass by to reach the body.

Moving over to the dead shooter, Callen studied the body before he gradually crouched down. It was indeed a woman, about 5' 7" he'd guess and the few tendrils of hair that escaped the hoodie were light brown.

Sam moved over to hold Michelle's good hand as Callen reached out to roll over the body. There was nothing he could do to ease the moment for his friend; he could only be available for the fallout this reveal was going to trigger. Michelle glanced tenderly at her kind-hearted husband who was already grieving for the hurt and shock his best friend was about to receive.

The vibe on the landing was so oppressive that Callen's hand actually trembled slightly as he touched the corpse's shoulder and gently applied enough force to roll the body on to its' back. When he saw who the shooter was, Callen who rarely let his emotions be seen in public, gasped and his face twisted into a mask of agony. He blindly reached out a hand and grabbed the metal railing surrounding the landing to steady his shaking body but his eyes never left the face of the dead woman; he was mesmerized with disbelief.

Sam let go of his wife's hand and moved to his devastated partner's side, placing a sympathetic hand on Callen's shoulder. Callen didn't even acknowledge Sam's presence; he simply continued to stare at the dead woman's face. After a minute, Callen reached out a tentative hand and ran his fingers across the corpse's face in a tender fashion.

Michelle, sitting on the stairs, bit her lower lip as she felt tears well up in her chocolate brown eyes. Even though she knew this woman had held her captive at gunpoint and gave all intentions that she planned to harm her, Michelle's heart ached that Callen, whose soul was damaged already, had to be the one to kill her. She knew life wasn't fair, but this seemed down right cruel.

Callen stood up stumbling heavily against Sam as he rose. Sam steadied the man, though Callen abruptly shook free and headed for the open window where he rapidly climbed though the frame disappearing inside. Michelle motioned for Sam to go after him, but as the big guy started to follow his distraught partner, the EMTs blocked his way as they cleared the remaining shards of glass from the window before coming through with all their gear.

By the time everything was straightened out on the fire-escape, it was too late to go after Callen. Sam heard the Challenger roar to life and he peered over the railing just in time to see Callen pulling away in the car. A quick pat down of his pockets showed his partner had picked his pocket for the keys to the car. Knowing there was nothing more he could do at the moment, he focused his attention back on his injured wife and love of his life.

Back in Ops, Hetty gave the instructions to the tech team to shut down the live feed. As the screens went dark, Hetty walked out of the room in measured steps and it was painfully obvious her heart was heavy.

Eric glanced over at Nell after Hetty left and knew she was upset because she fluttered about Ops doing busy work. He wasn't stupid and knew Hetty was deeply disturbed and so was Nell; the only thing he didn't know was why. It seemed the women must have recognized the shooter even if he, Eric, had no clue. Awkwardly clearing his throat he asked with trepidation, "I know that was Sam's wife Michelle. Did you know the other woman?"

With exaggerated care, Nell placed the tablet she had been holding, on the desk, then quietly answered Eric's question. Eric had never been trained to hide his emotions and his shock was clearly written all over his face when he processed what Nell told him. "You mean that was..."

Nell cut him off with a curt nod, not wanting to hear the name repeated aloud again. Once was more than enough.


	3. Chapter 3

_Author's Note - So last chapter had the first reveal; the agent was Michelle. Did you guess correctly? Thanks to all who have reviewed to date. I appreciate it!_

The only thing predictable about Callen was his unpredictability. Eric and Nell were deep into their work on their consoles when Callen burst into the room demanding their attention. "What have you got?"

Startled by his unexpected presence, the wonder twins spun their chairs around almost in unison, to face the senior agent who had halted in the middle of the room, hands on his hips, icy cold blue eyes fixed on them waiting for a reply. Nervously, Eric's tongue wet his lips as he stuttered out an "Ahhhhh..."

Eye's narrowing; Callen's glare grew even colder. "I know you have been researching her from the moment I killed her, hell probably even before." Callen's voice grew hard with the bite of anger, as he threw his accusation at the techs. "Did you know who she was when you sent Sam and me there?" Taking a measured step forward, he demanded again, "Did you!"

Nell and Eric had seen Callen angry before at others, but never had his full wrath been focused on them and they shrank back under its fierce intensity.

"Stand down, Mr. Callen," the strident voice of the Ops manager ordered from behind him.

Slowly, Callen turned to face his diminutive boss. In a flat, accusatory tone he stated, "You deliberately withheld information from me."

Never one to wilt under anyone's ire, Hetty remained cool and calm. "Yes, Mr. Callen. I withheld information. But not, perhaps, the information you think."

Callen folded his arms over his chest, as if he was physically holding his anger in check by the maneuver. "Care to explain?" His tone was cold, harsh and way south of the border of insubordination.

"I don't care for your tone," she sharply reprimanded him. "We'll continue this discussion in my office."

Callen's masked slipped back into place, as he watched her leave the room; his face was now a blank canvas. However, inwardly his emotions were churning at the thought he'd been kept in the dark and who he'd been forced to kill. The distraught man couldn't stop his mind from debating Hetty's role in this whole mess.

Seething, he strode from the Ops Center, pausing for a minute by the head of the staircase, to try to compose himself before heading pell-mell down the steps towards Hetty's office. As he was bounding up the three risers that led to her desk, she glanced up at him and Callen realized meeting with her now would be a very bad unwise; he was uncharacteristically out of control and deeply afraid of what he might say, what he might accuse her of doing. Reaching in his pocket, he threw the keys to the Challenger on Hetty's desk before reversing his direction, hurrying back down the stairs and out of the building.

Behind her desk, Hetty bowed her head and sighed knowing she hadn't handled this situation well. She prayed to the deity that watched over Callen, to keep him safe until she had an opportunity to explain her actions and try to redeem herself in his eyes. Whether or not he'd accept or believe her actions were in his best interest remained to be seen, but she sincerely hoped she'd get the chance to explain.

Sitting in his own car in the parking lot, Callen too bowed his head trying to make some sense of this whole thing. His mind had a thousand questions and not a single answer. In frustration, he beat his palms against the steering wheel, managing barely to stop himself before he caused any serious damage. Unbidden, tears welled up in his blue eyes and he angrily wiped them away. Get a grip he lectured himself. With resolve, he drove away, though not even he was sure as to where he was headed.


	4. Chapter 4

If someone was to ask Callen how he felt as he drove away from work, and if Callen was inclined to give a honest answer, his best answer would be empty; a dull, cavernous room of nothingness. Not sorrow, not dismay, not angry, though they would eventually come, at the moment he was simply empty. He drove without even realizing where he was headed, his body on auto-pilot operating the car, maneuvering thru traffic, obeying the laws of the road.

It should have come as no surprise to him when he realized he had pulled into a parking space in Venice beach, a place he once told Sam he liked because he could lose himself in it. Getting out and locking the car, he joined the few people walking on the strip, allowing himself to get swallowed up in their anonymity. His mind, always on the clock, whether he wanted to be or not, found it was odd there weren't more people around; normally Venice beach was teeming with locals and visitors alike.

He had a feeling his eyes were giving away his inner secrets so he briefly stopped and purchased a pair of sunglasses to hide behind. Whether his eyes showed sorrow, regret, or appeared as a deep empty cavern he couldn't say; but he was sure they were giving glimpses of things he didn't want revealed. Asking the proprietor where everyone was, Callen learned of an impending storm set to hit in a few hours; that explained the uncharacteristic emptiness at the beach.

After paying and thanking the guy, Callen stepped back outside and surveyed the sky. Off in the distance he could see the cloud bank rolling in and the winds on the strip were even more gusty than usual. Callen saw that all the smaller merchants were packing their wares and leaving and it amazed and scared him that he'd been that unaware when he drove here to notice these obvious signs of the upcoming weather event. It only served to remind him how far off his game he was at the moment and he didn't like it.

Turning his back to the wind, he started walking up the strip, lost in his own thoughts and trying to make sense of the events of the day; the events that had led to him killing his girl-friend, Joelle.

Callen had been involved in cases where the mission forced him to have a relationship with the target, or someone close to the target. It was one of the most distasteful parts of his line of work, toying with people's emotions. But this was totally different; this was his personal life. He wasn't using Joelle. She wasn't part of a case. He was going out with her in an honest, personal relationship; well at least he thought he was though now it seemed he was wrong. If the truth be told, he wasn't sure what upset him more, that he couldn't see she was playing him for some end gain of her own, or he was stupid enough to forget the basic rule of his life, don't trust anyone.

Realizing the pace of his walking had increased with the anguish of his mind, he forced himself to slow down as he was practically running down the pathway and was drawing unwanted attention from his actions. Taking a few deep breaths, he decided to verve off onto the sand and walk along the edge of the ocean which was churning with waves driven by the approaching storm.

The beach was fairly empty and when he found a more or less deserted spot, he plopped heavily down on the sand, drew up his knees, rested his chin on his forearms and stared out into the angry grey ocean which perfectly matched his mood. A few drops of moisture, which had nothing to do with the soon to come rain, or spray from the ocean, slipped down his face which he subsequently buried in his forearms.

Callen wasn't going to say he loved Joelle for that was too strong a word for him to use and it wasn't, at least in his definition of the word 'love'. However, he had been fond of her, enjoyed her company and had actually been able to picture himself moving towards the 'L' word someday. She was the first woman he had allowed himself to become truly involved with in a very long time. Not that their relationship wasn't still built on a stack of lies, it had to be, but he had been as open and honest as he could be with her, given his line of work. He had told her a little about his childhood, things he hadn't shared with many people and she had been understanding but not patronizing, which was one of the things he liked about her. In her presence, he had been able to let his guard down, just a bit, and it had been good for him, letting him relax, in a manner he usually couldn't achieve on his own.

After wiping the tears from his face, he slammed his fist into the sand in frustration. Who was she really? Why did she do this? What was her game? Why him? A thousand questions of that nature circled through his mind again and his moment of melancholy was replaced with white hot anger. He wanted answers, he needed answers! With resolve he pushed off the sand and headed back towards the car knowing who he had to seek out to answer the questions that were destroying his soul.

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><p><em>Author's Note: I know, another short chapter but at least I solved the shooter mystery. Think of this as a triad. You have just finished part one. now, buckle up and we are going on to part 2. Again, many many thanks for the reviews.<em>


	5. Chapter 5

_Author's Note - Very sorry. I uploaded the wrong chapter. The order is straight now. _

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><p>While Eddie Rabbit might love a rainy night, Hetty wasn't so sure she shared the sentiment, especially not after this day. The storm that had been predicted to hit the LA vicinity late in the day around the rush hour, arrived on schedule and was supposed to last at least to the morning. Back East, they would have called a weather event like this a Nor'easter and anyone who had ever experienced one of those storms could tell you it was not fun. While not as bad as a hurricane, Nor'easters left major damage in their wakes from the heavy rains, high winds and sometimes even snow. While LA didn't have to worry about snow from this particular storm, it was packing heavy rains and high winds which would be damaging enough to the region. While the area was in need of rain, this type of deluge was going to cause many problems, while only minimally helping restore their dry cisterns.<p>

After a quick review of what was currently on deck, Hetty had felt it was prudent to send the team home early to weather out the storm. Emotionally, they were already a wreck because of the shooting of Sam's wife and the death of Callen's girlfriend. She didn't want anyone getting into an accident trying to drive home in the nasty weather.

She had sent Kensi and Deeks on their way an hour ago. They had left debating how to weather out the storm. Kensi's idea was comfort food, a warm blanket and a good movie until the electricity went out; then either sleep or read. Deeks, on the other hand, wanted to head for the beach, check out the waves, see if he could catch a set, then hole up in a shore bar where he could watch the storm's majestic beauty. Hetty had a feeling the two would work out some sort of compromise.

Hetty had sent the Wonder Twins packing too. Nell, the practical, had left mentally reviewing her emergency-preparedness-kit to make sure there wasn't anything missing that she needed to pick up on the way home. Eric had been reviewing plans in his head too, on how to ensure if the power went out, he could continue gaming with his friends. He was calculating in his mind how much time his UPS would give him and what he needed to power-down to conserve energy.

Sam hadn't been an issue since he was already home with his family. Michelle had been released from the hospital earlier in the afternoon, since the gun wound was only a deep graze. The family was together, safe and sound, counting their blessing in the Hanna hacienda.

That only left one from her flock unaccounted for and she was very worried over that particular individual. No one had seen or heard from Callen since he had angrily left Ops. She had asked the techs to try to track his movements so she could ensure he was alright. However, she was not surprised to learn that Callen had dropped off the grid; not unheard of behavior from her lone wolf.

Callen always preferred to try to make sense of the world on his own; it was how he'd been raised. Even though there were many people that loved him and would gladly support and comfort him, his trust issues made him keep them at bay. Sam had gotten past some of those barriers and she had too, though after today, it remained to be seen what this incident would do to their relationship. Her senior agent had been very angry at her when he blew out of Ops earlier. However, Callen didn't know the whole story and Hetty hoped he would give her the chance to explain. She knew he was hurting deeply and she feared all the progress he had made in trusting others had been blown away, literally and figuratively, today.

Hetty perched her elbows on her desk and propped her head up with her right hand under her chin. The Ops Manger wasn't so hubris that she couldn't admit when she made mistakes. Contrary to what Callen might be currently thinking, she hadn't known that Joelle was the shooter. She had learned at the same time he had, after she was dead. Yes, she did chose not to tell them Michelle was the agent being held hostage and perhaps for that she could be faulted, though to her mind that was still a judgment call. If they had known, going into the building, that it was a loved one they were rescuing, would that have made them more cautious or more reckless? Either direction could have increased the casualty count. Her judgment had been to trust her agent's training; whether a family member or a complete stranger, their training would get them, and the hostage, safely through and it did. Whether Sam or Callen agreed with her assessment of how to handle the situation, didn't really matter per say; it was her decision as the Ops Manager.

Part of being a good manager was doing analysis after a situation was over to determine, if the scenario ever arose again, whether to take the same course of action. Hetty sat alone, at her desk, mulling it over and decided she had acted properly and would do the same COA in the future; though she prayed fervently she would never have to make a call like that again.

Pushing back in her chair, she got to her feet scanning the areas of the building she could see from her present location. It appeared, other than the skeleton night crew, she was the last to depart. The high winds outside were rattling the windows of the mission and she made a quick decision to take a more storm-worthy car from the motor pool home tonight and leave her precious Jag, here.

As she pulled out of the garage into the torrential downpour in the borrowed Subaru, she decided she would head for her house near the coast. She hadn't prepared it for such a fierce event and she didn't want damage to the house from wind or water, if she could avoid it. She thought she could make it to the beach house before the storm got too severe. As she pulled onto the main streets, she realized how poor visibility was, so the fact that she didn't spot the grey Mercedes pulling out behind her was understandable, even given her talents.

It took all her skill and concentration to drive through the lousy weather and even at that it was very slow going. Fortunately, most people had gotten off the road and were waiting out the storm in the safety of their homes. However, even though traffic was light, the foul weather still stopped her from spotting the car tailing her Subaru.

When she turned onto a windy road that went along the coast, her ghost turned with her and for the first time, she had an inkling something was not right. However, the driving rain on the windows impeded visibility and when she glanced in her mirrors, for a second look, she wasn't even able to determine if another car was behind her green wagon. Always the cautious lady, she reached into her purse and withdrew her service weapon, placing it on the center console within easy reach should she need it.

The small road she was traveling on ran along the edge of the Pacific coast and was mostly used to access the high-end residences that lived in the area. One side of the narrow road dropped off in a graduated slope leading to the water. The ground was a mixture of large rocks and scrub vegetation which ended in a narrow strip of sand along the water's edge. The other side of the road was a much steeper incline, also covered in dirt and vegetation, though not as rocky.

Even above the noise of the squall, she heard the rumbling and her stomach lurched to her throat. She knew that sound, what it signified and there was nothing she could do to stop it, so she did what she could to try to survive. One way or another she knew her vehicle was going over the edge of the road, so she maneuvered the car to try to go over the precipice in the most controlled manner possible.

Praying the slope was as gradual in this area as she remembered, she turned the nose of the car towards the ocean so when the first wave of mud hit the car, it struck the rear end. From that point on she tried to basically surf the wave of mud down the bank towards the sea. The wheels had no traction so she couldn't really steer and eventually her luck ran out three-quarters of the way down the slope when the valiant Subaru hit an outcropping of rocks nose first, came to a grinding halt and the flood of mud behind the car flowed up and over the roof burying it. The air bag deployed saving the petite woman from sustaining any major injuries. However, the hood of the car crushed and folded upon impact with the rocks which eventually translated to the steering wheel being pushed into the driver seat, effectively pinning her to the seat. When the air bag deflated, Hetty tried to wiggle free but quickly came to the conclusion she was stuck. She tried, but no amount of pushing by her was going to make the steering wheel move an inch.

Her purse, which had been on the seat next to her, had slid on to the far side of the passenger floor; it mine-as-well have been back in the office for all the good it was going to do her. There was no way she could reach it, or anything in it, to aid in trying to escape. With a frustrated sigh, she stopped struggling and worked on calming herself to await rescue. She hoped the feeling she had about being followed was accurate, that is was someone friendly, that they survived the mudslide and would come to her aid. However, she realized she was putting a lot of eggs in one basket.


	6. Chapter 6

Callen had tailed people in snowstorms and sandstorms, but this storm with its' driving rains and wind was worse; he imagined this was what it would be like to drive in a CAT 3 hurricane. Even though the Mercedes was low to the ground, it was light and the wind buffeted it, making it shudder and shimmy on the slick roadway. Normally, he wouldn't stay as close to his target as he was doing now, especially considering who he was tailing, but he was afraid if he left too much distance, he'd lose the other vehicle.

When Hetty drove past the turn off that headed in the direction of the first house he was aware that she owned, then the turn for the second residence he knew she possessed, Callen decided he was about to learn the location of a third house. His mind wandered for a split second wondering how she could afford so many places, but he quickly refocused because if he lost her, he'd have no clue where to go. As another gust of wind and precipitation battered his car, driving visibility dropped to practically nil and he decided to further reduce the gap between his car and Hetty's.

When Hetty turned onto a smaller road that ran upwards along the coast, there was only a single blue pickup truck separating the grey Mercedes from the green Subaru, but Callen had no choice. The road wasn't a major highway, traffic was light because of the storm, and there wasn't enough traffic to put more cars between them.

It wasn't too often in life that Callen was caught flat-footed, but he was today. Even though he heard the rumbling, as did Hetty, Callen didn't know how to interpret the sound, while Hetty knew exactly what it signified. When he saw the Subaru deliberately aim towards the sea, nose first, his confusion increased at his Boss' actions and his mind spun furiously trying to connect the data points.

Suddenly, his own vehicle was slammed sideways by a humongous sliding pile of mud and debris. The grey Mercedes was rapidly pushed across the narrow road by the tremendous force, to the far side guardrail, which couldn't hold up to the onslaught. The railing sheared off and the Mercedes and its occupant tumbled over the edge of the hillside and plunged towards the ocean.

Callen's head was unmercifully slammed against the driver's window before the side airbags were able to deploy. As the mudslide continued to propel the helpless car down the slope, the low slung Mercedes was repeatedly rolled, side over side, towards the stormy sea below.

On about the sixth rotation of the Mercedes, Callen passed out and remained that way while the car continued to roll down the slope before eventually coming to a rest, driver's side down, against an outcropping of rocks. Had it not been for the boulders, the car would have continued to tumble directly into the angry, churning ocean at the bottom of the embankment.

The blue pickup truck, which had been between Hetty's green Subaru and Callen's grey Mercedes, was the least fortunate of the trio of cars, in its unexpected decent. When the mudslide hit the truck, it too started to slither down the embankment, but because of the angle at which it went over, it flipped end over end and on the second rotation, the gas tank hit a rock and the truck went up in a ball of flames. A rolling ball of fire tumbled down the slope and any occupants of the truck had a zero chance of surviving the tragedy.

Neither Callen nor Hetty saw the fire-ravaged truck since one was unconscious and the other was in a car almost completely buried in the muck. The flames that engulfed the pickup only burned a short time before the heavy rains dosed them, leaving behind a steaming hunk of twisted, charred metal, resting in a sea of mud.

Callen was out for over an hour before he showed signs of regaining consciousness. Slowly blinking his pain-filled blue eyes, he struggled to recall where he was and what had occurred. His mind correctly deduced he was in a car, but his orientation felt wrong and it took a few minutes for him to figure out why; he was lying on his side against the driver's door. His seat belt performed its job admirably, holding him firmly in place; otherwise he would have surely sustained worse injuries, even death. Looking out the windshield, he saw nothing but inky darkness, though there was something strange about it. He couldn't put his finger on what was wrong with the scene he was observing and the answer remained just out of reach in his scrambled brain.

Unbuckling his seatbelt, he proceeded to squirm out from under the steering wheel, satisfied to note while he was definitely sore, nothing seemed broken. Shifting his position so he was semi-kneeling on the driver's side door, Callen studied the passenger side window above his head. The darkness seemed lighter there and his brain finally clicked. He'd been caught in mudslide trailing Hetty and his car had been pushed violently off the road by the force of the mud.

Escaping the car and discovering what transpired to Hetty, quickly became his number one priority as he examined the dim interior of the Mercedes for a way out. Now that his brain was more or less back online, he realized the car was lying on its' side and given the darken windshield and back window, he was pretty sure the vehicle was buried in the mud from the slide.

Judging by the light filtering through the passenger window, it seemed that it might not be covered in as much dirt and he judged that was probably his best opportunity for escape. One look at the passenger door, which was twisted and mangled, told him there was no way it was going to open; that meant the window was his best option. The engine had long since stopped running but he wondered if there was enough juice in the battery to lower the window, if he rotated the ignition switch to the accessory position.

Groping with his right hand, he found the key in the ignition and twisted it a quarter turn. A few warning lights on the dashboard flickered on giving Callen hope this might work. Reaching down between his feet, he felt around on the door looking for the switch that operated the passenger's side window. His fingers located the set of four toggles and he visualized in his mind, given his orientation, which one was the correct button. Confident he had the right one; he applied pressure and anxiously watched the window above him for movement. There was a scrunching sound as the glass tried to grind through the dirt, but the door was too bent for the pane to recede into its receptacle. No matter how much he flicked the switch, the window remained stuck in place.

Cursing in Russian, he contemplated his next move. The only viable option still was the passenger window, but now he'd have to remove the glass. He certainly wasn't going to try to disassemble the car door considering the current situation; there were no points to be given out for neatness in a crisis. The only other thing he could think to do was use the force of his legs to kick out the window. Shifting his position in the cramped front seat again, he bent his knees slightly and placed his feet, sole first, firmly against the passenger's window glass. When he was satisfied he had the correct angle, he drew his knees towards his chest then straighten his legs with as much power as he could muster. His feet shattered the window's safety glass, raining mud and water down on him, forcing him to divert his face sideways. When the cascade stopped, he slowly rotated his head and examined his handiwork, satisfied with the results.

To get out of the car, further gyrations of his already aching body were required. Finally, he was able to brace his feet on the dashboard, insert his arms though the smashed-out window opening, find leverage on the outside of the window frame and haul his body upwards and out the car. His arms and shoulders screamed in agony as he pulled his torso out of the Mercedes. Once outside, he scrambled a bit on the slippery, mud-covered surface of the car, eventually finding his balance. At that point he paused for a moment to survey his dismal surroundings.

The winds and heavy rains threatened to sweep him off his precarious perch, and he hunkered down to maintain his balance. In the waning light of the day, he scanned the decimated hillside, desperately searching for the green Subaru that contained Hetty.

The blackened, once blue pickup truck caught his eye first. Since the three vehicles had gone over the edge of the hill in the order of Subaru, pickup, then Mercedes, his eyes sought the area beyond the pickup, searching for Hetty's car. From his current vantage point, he could not see it, though the impending darkness and wind-driven rain weren't helping visibility.

Carefully sliding down off the side of the slick Mercedes, he dropped onto the saturated ground, grimacing as the mud squished over his short boots. Walking was treacherous on the slippery surface that felt alive as it shifted under his wet feet. Twice, he was dumped into the muck when he lost his balance, as he made his way over to the scorched truck. When he got there, he was thoroughly doused with mud, which the rain was doing its best to wash away.

The pickup truck was lying on its side, in the slop, like the Mercedes, driver's side down. The windshield was obscured by smoke residue denying any view into the cab. The rear window, located in the truck's bed, was also caliginous, offering no view. The only way Callen was going to be able to verify that no one was alive and in need of assistance was to climb up on the truck and hopefully see in the passenger window.

Tentatively reaching out his hand to touch the undercarriage, Callen discovered that rain had cooled the flame-heated metal enough that it didn't burn the skin on his hands. Using various pieces of the exhaust system, the struts, and other parts of the undercarriage, Callen clambered up towards the top. He was almost to the pinnacle, when the metal piece his right foot was perched on unexpectedly gave way. Unable to maintain his hold on the rain-slicked metal with his fatigued hands, he plunged down the undercarriage of the pickup before landing hard, in the muck, on his back.

As he laid there,it took a moment for him to register the sharp pain that shot through the front of his left thigh. Wincing, he lifted his head to glance down at his leg, discovering a 4 inch gash in the front of his thigh; something sharp on the underside of the pickup had sliced through his jeans, into his leg, during his fall.

The storm took that moment to intensify as the wind rose and the rain pel harder, down on his body. Swearing, Callen pushed his battered body out of the mud, rising to his feet. He didn't have time to coddle this injury with the last of the daylight quickly dispersing.

Ignoring his pain, he approached the overturned vehicle again and carefully scaled it at a different location, finally gaining access to the passenger side window. Unfortunately, it was also sooted over, so Callen moved off the door frame so he could try to open it. He gave a hearty tug on the handle and the door creaked and groaned but it only opened a few inches.

Bracing his body to the best of his ability given the wind, rain, and the slippery surface, Callen used brute strength to pry the door open further. When there was a three foot gap, he stopped for a moment to catch his breath. The rain beat down on him, washing away the clumps of mud that had adhered to his body. His clothes had turned brown except were his blood had soaked his jeans. He was drenched to the skin and he shivered from a combination of stress, fatigue and the cool, gusting wind.

For a moment, his mind rewound itself to a day when he and Joelle had been caught in an unexpected rain storm and had been drenched. They had found a pleasurable way to warm up. Callen quickly slammed the gates down in his mind on that memory. The thrumming pain in his leg was joined by a similar pain in his heart but now was not the time or place to deal with either issue.

Still breathing heavily, he stuck his head inside the opened door of the pickup truck. Immediately, he averted his eyes, yanked his head out and let the door swing shut. The charred remains left no doubt that the occupant was deceased. The horrible image burned itself onto his retinas, as his stomach did a slow roll. Panting, he sat back on his haunches for a few seconds, getting control over his mind and body and praying the death had been instantaneous. If he had any food in his stomach, he was sure he would have decorated the side of the truc with it. He swallowed hard a few times and took deep breaths as he let his eyes wander over the disaster of the mudslide.

Mental chiding himself for losing it, he surveyed his surroundings again looking for a likely location for Hetty's car. Spotting a suspicious, car-sized lump in the dirt, he slid off the truck, gasping as his wounded leg took the brunt of his weight when he hit the ground. Again, he pushed the pain to the back of his brain and stayed focused on the task at hand which was finding Hetty. Life is ironic, he mused as he started forward. Four hours ago he was furious at the petite Ops manager and couldn't wait to distance himself from her; now, he'd give anything to see those pale, blue eyes peer up at him from behind those thick glasses.

Like a novice ice skater, he slid and sloshed thru the mud, over to the area and was finally able to confirm it was the green Subaru. The only thing visible was the lift gate in the back of the car; the rest had been covered by the mudslide. Fumbling around, he felt what he thought was the latch that should release the hatch. Try as he might, he couldn't get the back to open; whether it was damaged, stuck, or locked he had no clue. What he did know, is he needed a new plan on how to get inside the car.


	7. Chapter 7

_Author's Note: Again, sorry for the mix-up last time. I posted chapter 8 instead of 5, talk about an unexpected plot twist. Anyway, I have them all posted in the right order now. You may want to read 5, 6 and then this one to get back on track. Thank you for being very kind in your reviews by graciously saying 'hmmm, I'm a little confused' rather than 'what the heck are you doing'._

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><p>Shifting the weight from his injured leg to his good one, he scanned his surroundings for something to smash the rear window. The Subaru had come to rest against a grouping of boulders, as had his Mercedes. Those rock piles were the only reason that neither car was resting, in the ocean, at the bottom of the slope. The rocks had kept the cars from tumbling further downward.<p>

Callen made his way around the lump of mud that was the car, to see if there were any smaller rocks that he could lift to smash the window in the lift gate. The impact of the car on the boulders had sheared off some pieces of the rock formation. Balancing carefully, he reached down and hefted a good size piece of stone that he felt could accomplish the mission.

Sloshing his way back to the rear of the Subaru, he spread his legs, braced them as much as possible given the treacherous conditions and heaved the stone at the back window. It smashed thru the glass, causing a hole surrounded by a spider-web of fractures. Even though it was safety glass, Callen, in a short-sleeve shirt, was very careful as he removed the rest of the window so he could enter the car. As cautious as he was, he still obtained some nicks and cuts from the procedure.

As he crawled through the window, he noted it was very dark inside the vehicle and Callen could only vaguely make out the shape of a person in the driver's seat. Ignoring his protesting leg, he moved as rapidly as possible through the rear of the car and into the back seat trying not to hit his head on the low ceiling; it was an awkward scramble. When he was located behind the driver's seat, with trepidation, he reached out his index and middle finger to check for a pulse on the motionless figure sitting behind the wheel.

"I'm not deceased yet," the strident voice of the Ops Manager informed him and startled, he quickly withdrew his hand as if he'd touched a hot stove.

His voice held an undertone of relief, even though his comment was sarcastic. "Guess Granger will have to wait to have you stuffed and mounted."

"Cheeky, Mr. Callen," and though he couldn't see her face, Callen was sure she was smiling.

Unable to climb into the front seat because of the way the car was mangled, Callen thrust the upper portion of his torso between the seats to get a better view. "What's the deal?"

"I'm stuck, like cork, in a good bottle of wine," she drily informed him.

"Mm-hmm," he responded with his trademark tonal grunt. "Aren't you more of a scotch gal?"

"True, but I also enjoy a good bottle of wine," she answered in a serious tone.

Trying to keep things light, he joked, "Well, if you were a wine, I'm sure you'd be a good vintage." He was having difficulties making out what was holding her 'stuck' because of the dim interior of the car.

Hetty sensed his frustration and had a partial solution. "My purse should be on the passenger side of the car somewhere. It was on the seat, so I'd check the floor. There is a flashlight inside that might be of assistance."

In the near darkness, Callen groped around the indicated area. "You carry a flashlight in your purse?"

"A small one. More of a pen light," she confessed. "However, it is very useful when trying to open a XO9 lock. Those screens are awfully dim."

His fingers brushed the object in question and after a little firm tugging, he secured her handbag. He hauled it back over the seat, into his lap. Though she couldn't fully see her agent's face in the semi-darkness, she felt his hesitation about digging around in her purse. "Nothing in there bites, Mr. Callen."

Smirking slightly for having been caught, he delicately inserted his hand into the opening, pushing a few items aside. "Are you sure?"

Pausing to reflect, she finally replied, "Yes. I'm almost positive I took out the knives and poison darts the other day. Damn purse was getting too heavy to carry on my shoulder."

Again, she felt her agent twitch, before he overcame his dread of the cavernous hole and dug deeper. A few seconds later he triumphantly closed his fingers around the flashlight and drew it out. A flick of the switch and bright blue-white light illuminated the compartment. Quickly focusing the beam on the Hetty, he could now see how the dashboard and steering wheel had shifted in the crash, effectively pinning her to the seat. She couldn't move side to side because of the door and the center console between the two front seats.

Hetty saw the look of concentration her senior's agent face and she remained silent as he worked the situation thru his mind; she had nothing useful to offer at this point. Callen's eyes roamed the dimly illuminated cabin of the car seeking inspiration. His eyes spotted the generous sunroof in the ceiling and he wondered if that was the solution to his problem of how to extract Hetty. Reaching up, he slid back the fabric panel, exposing the flat piece of glass which comprised the sunroof; it was intact.

Hetty followed his actions and ascertained his intent. "You're going to haul me out thru there?"

His serious blue eyes sought hers. "Will it work?"

Wiggling a bit, Hetty confirmed that side to side movement was fairly restricted. However, when she braced her small feet against the car's floor and pushed upwards, she felt give, indicating that Callen's plan might be successful. "I think your idea has merit."

Callen gave a curt nod. He was pretty sure he was not going to get lucky, but he asked anyway. "Any chance there is enough juice left to open the sunroof?"

Hetty felt around the steering column with her right hand, and then sighed. "I don't think the ignition still exists."

It was Callen's turn to sigh as he started slowly moving backwards, using the flashlight to examine the contents of the car. He was searching for a blanket, or coat, or something to cover his Boss with when he broke thru the sunroof. Finding nothing useful, he turned the flashlight back on Hetty, noting her outfit. "Can you raise your arms?"

Though she didn't quite understand why he was asking, Hetty tried, and was able to successfully raise her arms towards the ceiling.

"Good. We need to take your jacket off to cover your head. I have to break the sunroof glass." Callen reached for the cuffs of her jacket then hesitated. "You do have a shirt under the jacket right?"

"Of course," she primly replied. "I'm not one of those modernist who think that a tailored suit jacket can be used as a shirt."

Callen had no idea what she was talking about, nor quite frankly did he care; he had all the information he needed. "Good," he said as he started tugging on her sleeves again. It took a little maneuvering but working together, they final got the mustard-colored jacket off. He gave it a small shake before repositioning it to protect her head, neck and shoulders. "I'm gonna go back out, get on the roof and break thru the sunroof glass. Then I'll haul you out, like a sack of potatoes."

"Oh goody," Hetty said with a hint of sarcasm. "I'll be anxiously waiting right here to be hauled around like a sack of produce."

Callen turned around and crawled into the back of the small wagon. "Don't go anywhere," he jauntily flung back over his shoulder which earned him another 'humph' from his boss.

After shoving his aching body back thru the rear window and emerging outside, Callen flinched as the cold rain, driven by the fearsome wind, pelted against his body. 'Wonderful,' he thought as he stood miserably in the rain, surveying the buried car. The storm was intensifying and the ground was becoming increasingly unstable. The car shifted slightly, in the ever fluid mud causing Callen to kick into high gear. No telling when the vehicle might start sliding down the slope again, if the mud shifted.

He was going to need something to smash through the sunroof glass so he could extract Hetty. The over-sized rock from his previous act of vandalism was in the back of the car, but he had serious doubts he could lug it to the roof, and then crawl along the top of the car with the heavy, awkward object. Even if he was successful in accomplishing that part of the task, next he'd have to brace himself on the mud-covered surface of the roof, lift his awkward hammer, and smash thru the sunroof without sliding off the roof to the muddy ground. He didn't think his chances for success were going to be very high, so he racked his aching brain, which was throbbing in time to his heartbeat, for a 'Plan B'.

Most cars still had some fashion of spare which required a jack and tire iron, to be able to swap it out for the damaged wheel. The tire iron would make an excellent bashing device if he could find where it was stored in the Subaru. Sticking his upper body back thru the window, he rummaged around the back of the wagon, ripping up the plastic matt and carpet until he found the compartment in the floor. It took a bit of persistence to get the warped cover off, but eventually he got access to the area.

"Not that I'm rushing you," Hetty called from the front seat. "But it is getting a bit stuffy under this coat." She had also detected the slight shifting of the car and wasn't anxious to tumble down the slope any further trapped in her Subaru cocoon.

"Hurrying Hetty," he returned triumphantly holding the tire iron aloft. Scrambling up the back of the car with his cargo, he got on the roof, dropped to his hands and knees and gingerly crawled towards the area where he thought the sunroof resided. The wind gusts were making it near-impossible to stand on the exposed rooftop and though his leg protested his commando actions, he had no choice but to crawl on his hands and knees. Sticking his hand through the muck, he felt around until his fingers located the edge of the sunroof opening; he would have to remove a few inches of slime, from on top of the roof, to break the glass. A quick glance at his watch told him he had to hurry, as he would soon lose the last of the light.

The rain continued to pound down on him and the wind threatened to fling him off the car's roof. He needed both hands to scoop the mud off the sunroof but he was afraid to lay the tire iron down for fear it would slither off into the gathering darkness. Knowing it was probably a stupid move, but doing it anyway, he wedged the iron down the back off his pants near his gun holster; certainly not the most comfortable placement, but it did stay snug.

Scooping off the dirt while on his hands and knees was too slow, so he had no choice. Rising to his feet, he stood with his legs spread wide, mired in the mud to the ankles, and braced his feet against what he thought were the rails of the roof rack. This position offered a degree of stability.

Bending slightly, he used his bare hands to fling the mud off the area of interest. It was cold and miserable work and it didn't take long for his fingers to start to ache. As he got closer to the glass, the heavy rains helped wash some of the dirt away, making the process go faster, until he finally had the whole sunroof exposed. He reached back, pulled the tire iron out of the back of his jeans, made sure he had a firm grip on it with his numb fingers, and then swung it down hard and fast on the sunroof's glass.

Some days life sucked and this was definitely one of them; it didn't help when Mother Nature joined in to conspire against you. Callen brought the tire iron down with blistering force which put him slightly off balance, especially since he was favoring his injured left leg. To add to his already off-kilter state, a wind gust blasted him at the same time that he struck the sunroof with the tire iron. The glass shattered and Callen quickly checked his swing so as not to accidentally bash Hetty on the top of her head. In doing so, with all the other contributing factors, he lost his balance, plunged over the side the car and landed, back first, in the chilly, sloppy dirt. The tire iron skittered off into the mounting darkness but at least it hadn't landed on him; a small concession he guessed. His breath was momentarily knocked out of him, but when he recovered, he started cursing vigorously in Russian.

"Mr. Callen?" Hetty's concerned voice carried over the beating of the rain and the roaring of the wind. "Are you alright?"

Gritting his teeth, he used he his bare arms to leverage into a sitting position. Mud slid down the back of his jeans making an uncomfortable situation even worse. He started cursing violently again as he dragged himself to his feet and climbed back up on the roof of the car. When he got to the opening that once was the sunroof, he saw the pale blue eyes, of his diminutive ninja Boss, staring up at him through her rain-spotted glasses. "You do know your enunciation on a few of those curses is slightly off."

"You're kidding right?" Callen said in an annoyed tone. "Diction doesn't count when you're cursing." As he reached into the car to pull the jacket completely off her, the car shuddered and a fleet look of panic flit across the agents' faces. Moving with increased speed, he dropped to his knees next to the opening. "Your seatbelt is undone?"

"Yes. I unbuckled it already," she promptly confirmed.

Callen decided the best way to extract her was to place his hands under her armpits and pull her straight up through the opening. Hopefully, she could also use her feet to push, aiding in the procedure; given the current conditions he was working in, he was going to need all the assistance she could provide. After he explained to her how they were going to proceed, he reached down, into the car, getting ready to grasp her body.

Hetty watched as his hands came through the sunroof. "Are your hands clean?"

Callen rolled his eyes. "You're joking right."

Hetty gave the sigh of a martyr. "Well given the circumstances, I guess it can't be helped. Haul away."

Callen's got his hands into position and his first pull upwards was tad bit more energetic then was strictly necessary, though he would never admit to it. Hetty gave a disgruntled 'humph' as she started to ascend out the sunroof. As she got higher, it became harder to maintain the proper leverage, so Callen struggled from his knees, to his feet, to achieve a better angle.

Callen gave one last firm upward jerk. Hetty's body swung free, clearing the opening before accidentally hitting his wounded thigh causing him to let loose with a few more curses. "That was much improved," Hetty informed him drily as she dangled.

Callen debated how much trouble he would get in, if he dropped her face first in the mud. Wasn't mud supposed to be good for one's complexion? Didn't celebrities pay a lot of money for mud facials? However, his good sense won out over his bad boy attitude and he carefully set her down on the car's roof, keeping a hand on her bicep to insure she didn't slip or get blown over by the howling winds.

"Thank you, Mr. Callen," she said sincerely as she surveyed their surroundings with a critical eye. It didn't take her long to determine climbing back up the slope was not a viable option, which meant they had to go down the hillside towards the riled sea. "I'm good. You can let go now," she informed her slightly overprotective agent.

Callen slowly removed his hand, hoping the slight woman didn't get blown off the roof trying to get to the ground. Hetty, always the trooper dropped, in her elegant pantsuit, onto her petite derrière, into the mud on the Subaru's roof, then slid, feet first, down the car to the ground below, landing rather daintily on her feet. Callen couldn't stop a small grin from flashing across his face; she was truly an amazing person. A gust of wind buffeted him reminding him this wasn't the time and place to be contemplating his boss's athleticism; they had to find a safe place to weather out this storm.

Callen's decent from the car roof was less elegant than that of his boss, due to his injured leg, which buckled upon his landing, throwing him off balance; a stumble that was not unnoticed by Hetty, though she didn't say anything. Instead, she filed the fact away and started to pick her way down the slippery slope towards the ocean. Callen trailed along behind her. It was a tedious, slow journey, as both agents fought the wind, rain and ever shifting ground beneath their feet.

They were halfway to the bottom when a rumbling noise, exactly like the one that Callen had been unable to identify last time, occurred and this time he knew what it signified. "Hetty!" he yelled over the rain and the sound of the crashing waves but he needn't bother, as the Ops Manager heard the sound too and was already scanning for a place to escape.

"There," she bellowed pointing to an outcropping of rocks. They could seek shelter against the base of the boulders and pray the mudslide would be diverted around their fragile bodies by the rocks. When they got to the outcropping, Hetty lowered her body to the ground, kneeling and tucking her arms and legs underneath her, to make a compact mound. Callen used his larger frame to cover her body as best as he could, to add an extra layer of protection. When small clods of dirt found their way into their sanctuary, he shielded his head with his forearms and hands. He grunted once or twice when hard chunks of dirt and stone bounced off his back, but mostly the mud and debris slid harmlessly around their bolt hole.

When it seemed like the event was over, Callen carefully leveraged his torso off Hetty and gingerly stood, stretching out his battered frame; he'd have some spectacular bruises to show from this escapade tomorrow. Hetty also uncurled her limbs and heedfully rose to her feet, she too feeling the events of the day.

They started to step out from behind the rocks when, from the corner of his eye, Callen detected movement on the slope above them. With all the abuse his brain had been put to so far, it took a second to process what was happening. When he figured it out, he grabbed Hetty, thrusting her back behind the rocks.

As he wa diving to safety, the edge of the Subaru's bumper clipped his body tossing him sideways onto the ground, as the car, broken loose by the second mudslide, swept by to crash into the ocean below. When the danger had passed, Hetty carefully maneuvered to her feet, rising in time to see the green car sink under the waves. Callen was much slower to rise and after taking a few cautious breathes, he decided he cracked a rib or two to round out his pounding headache and his slashed thigh.

It was nearly dark and the wind and rain continued to intensify. In a concerned voice, Hetty asked "Are you alright Mr. Callen? Do you need assistance?"

Callen shook his head no as he pushed his abused body off the ground.

As she watched him, Hetty added, "We have to get off this slope. I fear that may not be the last of the mudslides."

Callen mutely nodded his head in concurrence and the two started picking their way down towards the ocean once again. They made it to the bottom relatively unscathed, though each of them took a few missteps along the way which lead to minor stumbles. Normally, the stretch of sand along the edge of the ocean in this area was 20 feet wide at low tide. Today, with the combined effects of the high tide and the storm generated waves, the strip was about 7 feet at its max and it was slowly shrinking.

Hetty circumspectly picked her way along the edge, where the rocky hillside met the narrow sand strip. The way she was moving made Callen think she was searching for something, like a dog following a scent. Figuring once again, his well-informed boss knew something he didn't, Callen quietly tagged along behind. Finally, Hetty came to a halt, staring upwards as she studied the rocky area in front of where she stopped. "Ah yes. I thought I recognized this place, though it does look different from out there," she vaguely gestured towards the sea with her left hand.

"From your sailboat?"

Hetty shook her head no. "My ocean kayak, of course."

"Of course," Callen echoed chuckling at the mental image of Hetty in a kayak. "Exactly what are we looking at?" His eyes swept the rocky terrain but in the dim light and torrential rain, he wasn't sure what he was supposed to see; then a shift in shadow and light made it obvious. "Is that a cave?"

"That might be a bit too grand a description; more like an alcove. However, it should keep us dry." At that precise moment, lightening streaked across the sky, immediately followed by the resonant sound of thunder. "Hmmm, that is rather close. I think we'd best hurry."

Callen couldn't agree more, since in the past, he'd been tortured using electricity; it had been a most unpleasant experience. He wasn't keen to experience nature's version of the act.


	8. Chapter 8

_Author's Note: Ok, so I think this is the chapter I accidently published in the wrong place earlier in the story. Hopefully, it makes more sense now. Got a little quiet on reviews. I hope I did lose you with the mix up. Enjoy._

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><p>The entrance to the cave was twelve feet up the face of the cliff and the two agents would have to scramble up to it. Hetty, though compact, made her way up easily, finding hand and toe holds even in the gloom. Callen had a bit more trouble between his bum leg, ribs and the numerous cuts littering his hands and arms. Halfway up, he lost his grip on the rain slick rocks, his left leg couldn't take the added pressure and he fell back down to the beach.<p>

"Are you still alright Mr. Callen? Do you need any assistance?" Hetty's head peered over the edge to look down at where he lay on his back in the wet sand.

A wave chose that moment to break on the narrow beach, soaking him further. Callen shook the water from his face like a wet dog and instantly regretted the action when it made his world start to dim. He fought back the internal darkness that was trying to overpower him, regained his footing and started his ascent again.

"Good thing this wasn't Mount Everest," his boss told him sagely as she watched him climb towards her location. "Otherwise you would have been squished like a bug on a windshield." She reached her tiny hand towards him as he neared the top and he simply gave her a 'get real' look, ignored her offer of assistance and clambered over the edge.

"Well done," she encouraged cheerfully as he lay panting, by the mouth of the cave. "Even with the false start."

Maybe he should have grabbed her proffered hand and flung her over the edge into the ocean, Callen uncharitably thought, as the fought to catch his breath. After a few moments, he pushed his weary body upright, with considerable difficulties.

As he scanned the cave, Callen concluded Hetty was right, it wasn't much of a cave as caves go, though it was high enough that Callen could stand; for Sam it would have been close. The floor was a mix of sand, rocks and scattered debris, most likely brought in by animals using it for shelter. It wasn't very deep, about twenty feet at most, but it had enough length that the back section remained dry, even in this terrible weather. As another bolt of lightning brightened the sky, Callen instinctually moved deeper into the shelter. "Unoccupied I hope."

Hetty pulled out her mini-flashlight, shining it around. "Other than a few stray spiders and maybe a vampire bat or two, I think we are Ok."

Even in the semi-darkness, she could feel Callen's disbelieving eyes staring at her. "Vampire bat? Really Hetty?"

"I'm sorry. Does that remind you too much of needles? I know you have an intense dislike of them though I must confess, I am not sure why."

Callen gave a very ungentlemanly snort. "You mean there is something the all-knowing Hetty doesn't know."

"I never said I know everything, just that I know all that is worth knowing," she primly corrected him.

Callen moved to the rear of their hidey-hole and circumspectly lowered his battered body to the ground. "So you are telling me the reason why I hate needles isn't worth knowing."

Following suit, Hetty positioned herself on the sandy ground near him, smoothing out her jacket like this was a formal event. "Do you wish to tell me why you have such a disdain for needles and hospitals for that matter?" she probed gently.

He was not mentally up to a sparring session with her, so he quickly and succinctly replied, "No."

"I see," she said amicably not forcing the subject. "Someday, perhaps."

Callen had no idea if he could ever bring himself to tell her, so he replied with a noncommittal echo, "Perhaps." The next thing he knew, Hetty was shining her flashlight in his face. Startled, he demanded, "What are you doing!" Exhausted, he wasn't in the mood to deal with Hetty's poking and prodding.

Hetty critically examined the upper, left-side of his head. "That's a nasty abrasion."

"Happens when you roll your car down the side of a hill tailing your boss," he glibly answered.

Hetty moved the flashlight beam to check Callen's pupils. "That Mercedes has side-air bags. I know. I made sure. Didn't they deploy?"

Callen jerked his head away from the irritating light being shone in his eyes. "Their deployment was more of an after-fact. By then my head had already smacked the window a few times."

"I see," she said philosophically turning the beam of the flashlight aside. "Do you have a concussion?"

"Does it matter?" he shot back.

Hetty shone her flashlight in his direction again. "That's not an answer." Callen shrugged adverting his eyes. Moving the beam down his body to his left leg, she tried to examine that wound. "Your jeans are in the way," she informed him.

"I refuse to take them off," he firmly stated.

"Humph. Here. Hold this please," she demanded handing him the mini-light.

Callen immediately went on guard and refused to take the light she was shoving at him. "Why?"

"I need both hands to examine that gash in your thigh. It looks rather deep," she said in a very matter-of-fact tone.

"Ut-ah. There is no need to examine it," he adamantly stated squirming his leg further away from her. "And you don't have a medical kit. There is nothing you can do."

"Oh Mr. Callen, don't underestimate what I can do with what is available. I once made a tourniquet out of a brassiere to save someone from bleeding out."

"TMI Hetty," he replied with a shudder. "And I'm not bleeding out."

With a sigh, Hetty switched off her light as she settled back against the rock wall. "I hope you are correct in your medical assessment. Think of how embarrassing it would be for me to have to explain to Director Vance that I was sitting next to you as you bled out and I did absolutely nothing. I have to think it would reflect poorly on my performance rating."

Callen sighed again. "I promise I'm not dying. Trust me. I have been close enough to know what it feels like; this isn't it."

Folding her hands primly in her lap, Hetty watched the lightening display over the ocean out the front of the cave. "But you are hurting." The boom of the thunder reverberated loudly in the cave as if to emphasize her statement.

Callen took his time answering, as he watched the pyro-technics in the sky. "Yeah, I'm sore and a little beat up, but I'll be fine."

"That is not to what I am referring." Callen quirked an eyebrow at Hetty which she saw as the next round of lightening lit their cave. "I am referring to your mental state."

Callen scowled at her and even in the darkness, Hetty knew she had hit a nerve, as was her intention. They had to clear the air over this morning's events. It was hard to believe that less than 24 hours earlier, Callen had shot and killed Joelle and Hetty had inadvertently orchestrated it. It had been a very long day.

Though their cave was only intermittently illuminated by the flashes of lightening, instinctively Callen turned away from his prying boss as he tightly clenched his jaw. Why did she have to bring this subject up now? He had managed to, at least temporarily, compartmentalize and shove it in the back closet of his mind.

The horrible emotions, that he had been refusing to let himself feel, burst forth and washed over his mind and soul like the deluge outside. He hadn't had time to properly process what happened this morning, to analyze, to rationale, then to lock it away for good. Now this lady sitting next to him wanted to talk about it. He hadn't gotten this event 'Callenized' behind his nearly impenetrable walls. If he had to talk about it now, he was very afraid of what might happen; what he might say, what he might be forced to feel, what he might inadvertently revel about his damaged soul that no one should ever be allowed to witness.

Callen could feel her waiting in the darkness for him to say something. It felt like ants crawling across his skin and he knew if he didn't do something; it would drive him to distraction. He had to squash this conversation like it was a misguided ant. However, for all his bravado, his scrambled brain and battered body weren't up to par and what came out of his mouth was his fallback line and pathetic at best. "I'm good."

Hetty didn't get to where she was in life by being stupid. Many of her 'nicknames' were accurate and well-deserved. If this subject was left to fester, it could ruin her tight-knit team that was ridding the world of much evil; the team trusted each other with their lives and they had to trust her too. She couldn't allow that trust to deteriorate so she stubbornly dug in her heels, preparing for the emotional battle, in which she was about to engage.

"You are not that cold-hearted Mr. Callen. You killed the woman you were dating, the woman you were sleeping with, the woman you were coming to care about on a deeper level." She held up a hand to ward off his denials. "'I'm good' simply cannot be an accurate description of your current mental state, even for you."

Callen felt the bile rise up in his throat, as Hetty forced him to confront some truths he would have rather ignored. The damn witch was right; he had let himself become emotionally involved with Joelle against all his better judgment. He was no babe in the woods. He knew exactly how cruel, indifferent, and heartless people were, yet he had allowed himself to start to care about Joelle and look how it had turned out for him, like it always had in the past; he got screwed. From the man that handed him the toy soldier on the beach, then shot his mother; thru the myriad of foster homes that pretended to want him then beat him; to his so-called ex-wife/partner who loved him then left him; every time he let himself get emotionally invested in someone, he got burned.

"You're right Hetty." Callen seemed like he was going to say something more then he shook his head and took a different tack. "Why did you send Sam and me in blind to that rescue?"

Hetty closed her eyes and leaned her bobbed-head back against the rock wall, not that Callen could see her in the dark cave. "It was a judgment call on my part and before you ask, yes, I knew it was Michelle and no, I did not know it was Joelle."

Callen's leg was aching so he shifted it trying to relieve the pain. "Then why not tell us it was Michelle?" he challenged.

Hetty consider the very valid question, formulating the answer in her mind. "Would it have made a difference in how you approached the situation, if you knew it was Michelle in peril? Think carefully before you answer," she cautioned her agent.

Callen, who had been about to serve up a snap answer stopped, and did what his boss was asking, neutrally evaluated the situation. If he and Sam had known it was Michelle in jeopardy, would they have reacted differently? The answer to that question had to be no, because if it was yes, then that was saying that they weren't trying their hardest to save every hostage; it shouldn't matter who the hostage was, he and Sam always had to give hundred percent. That was their job. That was what they swore to do.

Callen hated to admit it, but if they had known it was Michelle, maybe it would have made a difference, but in the wrong direction. They had gone into the situation this morning trusting their training. Had they'd known it was Michelle, would they have second guessed their decisions, perhaps making wrong choices thereby endangering her life?

Hetty could practically hear the wheels turning in her agent's head and feel him grimace as he came to the conclusion she had hoped; that her decision not to tell them it was Michelle they were rescuing was the correct choice.

Finally, he slowly spoke. "You're right Hetty. You made the correct call not to tell us."

"Oh Mr. Callen, this isn't about me being right. This is about trust. I need you to trust me if we are going to continue to be successful." In a way she was grateful for the darkness because it helped facilitate this tough conversation.

Callen fumbled, attempting to be honest. "I trust you Hetty. Or I try to trust you. Hell," he said running weary hand over his face, carefully avoiding his head wound. "You know I have issues with trust."

"And yet in the last six years, you have made significant progress," she reminded him. "You trust Sam."

"With my life," he interjected, quickly and sincerely.

"And the rest of the team?" she inquired.

Callen shifted uncomfortably, in the semidarkness. "I know they have my back."

"But is that trust?"

Anger flared in Callen and she could hear it in his tone. "Don't push it, Hetty. Not now."

She raised her hands in a placating position, though the gesture was lost in the darkness. "Fair enough."

The day suddenly caught up with Callen and his vision began to dim and his ears buzzed. "Hetty," he started, his voice already slurring. "Don't make a big thing out of this, but I'm gonna pass out. Please don't stick me with any needles while I'm unconscious."

With that, Callen slumped over on his right side, in the sand. Hetty reached over to check his pulse and was satisfied it was steady. There wasn't anything more she could do but wait out the storm, so she settled her back more comfortably against the wall, closed her tired blue eyes and began to meditate to help pass the time.


	9. Chapter 9

_Author's Note: BTW, if you are not a fan of the Hetty character, I guarantee you will not enjoy this story. I find she is an interesting foil for Callen and write her into a lot of my pieces. Now this chapter is posted in the right order; hang in there. I promise this is intentional this time, not a mistake like earlier. Lol._

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><p><em>It was dark outside when he pulled into the driveway of his house, though the porch light was on, spreading its cheerful glow on his front lawn. He got out of his light blue Honda Odyssey and started towards the front door before he suddenly stopped and looked over his shoulder. A family van? Since when did he ever drive a van other than a black, tactical vehicle? Shaking his head in puzzlement, he turned back towards his house and continued onward. Before he could even reach for the knob, the door was flung open and a tow-headed girl of five vigorously flung her body at his legs.<em>

_"Daddy, you are home!" she exclaimed cheerfully. "I have missed you. Where's Mommy? Isn't she with you?"_

_Instinctively, Callen had been reaching for his weapon, but he stopped, looking down at the small child who was now clinging to his left leg like a tick. Totally confused by the situation, Callen gently but persistently removed his leg from the child's clutches and stepped into his living room; it was completely furnished which a couch, chairs, area rug, frilly curtains on the windows and fresh flowers on the entry foyer table. An older woman, in her mid-fifties, stepped out of the kitchen holding a glass which she was drying with a flowered dish towel._

_"Mr. Callen, is that you?" She came around the corner and spotted him standing somewhat shell-shocked in his own house. "Welcome home. Did you have a nice time?" She glanced expectantly behind him then frowned slightly. "Where is Mrs. Callen?"_

_The confused agent had no idea how to answer the question since last time he checked there wasn't a Mrs. Callen; his mother and sister were long dead and he wasn't married. Was he on some sort of undercover assignment, using his own home as a base? That would be highly unlikely. If he was on assignment, then he must have received a fairly serious head injury because he didn't remember a damn thing about this mission._

_The little girl, who he had momentarily forgotten about, reached up, took his hand and tugged on it to get his attention. Without thinking, he knelt on the ground on one knee, bringing his body to her level. She flung her petite arms around his neck and gave him an enthusiastic hug, which he hesitantly returned, resting his chin on the top of her head, as his eyes scanned his living room again, still not believing what he was witnessing. After a long minute, he rose to his feet with the little girl, tucking her in the crook of his left arm. Her pale locks ticked his nose, as she wrapped her arms around his neck, smelling faintly of strawberries. _

_"Mrs. Henry and me picked strawberries today, then made an Angel cake, and whip cream, then mashed the strawberries with a funny looking thing. I accidentally spilled them on the floor but Mrs. Henry said it was OK cause accidents happen and we cleaned it up together then we mashed more and poured them on top of the cake with whip cream and ate it all for dessert," the little girl burst forth in the run-on style of a typical excited five-year-old. "We were gonna make jam but I fell in a mud puddle at the farm and had to come home and take a bath and we ran out of time but I didn't ruin my clothes just got'em dirty so Mrs. Henry washed them and they came clean."_

_Callen felt slightly exhausted by the time she finished her dissertation and he nodded his head mutely at the babblings of the girl in his arms. __Mrs. Henry smiled at her charge fondly. "Fresh air and sunshine is good for the soul."_

_"I suppose it is," Callen replied distractedly as moved into the kitchen finding it fully stocked with appliances, much more than his normal toaster, coffee maker and microwave. There was a table, chairs, placements and he bet if he opened the cabinets, they would be fully stocked with items not normally found in his spartan abode._

_The older woman with the dish towel followed behind him then moved around him, to go to the sink, to pick up another glass which she dried. When she opened the door to place it in the cabinet, Callen was able to see his hunch was right; it was fully stocked. After that, she neatly folded the towel and hung it to dry before turning to face Callen. "Is everything alright? Mrs. Callen didn't come home with you?"_

_Callen opened his mouth, though he was clueless as to what was going to come out of it. A firm knock on the front door offered the distraction he needed, to delay answering her question. Hiking the girl a little higher on his shoulder, Callen walked to the front door and opened it with his right hand. He was greeted with the sight of two of LAPD's finest looking very serious._

_"Mr. G Callen?" the taller, darker-haired officer asked. _

_Callen immediately went into defensive mode. They knew his real name; hardly anyone knew his real name, especially not in conjunction with this address. The little girl in his arms was undisturbed by the whole thing; she seemed to think everything was normal. She gazed with slight awe at the policeman which was typical for her age; to them, the police meant protection, to Callen they meant trouble._

_"Mr. Callen. We know it is you from the photo in the DMV database," the second officer informed him._

_Not possible, Callen's mind screamed. G Callen didn't have a driver's license in any state, or any country for that matter. He had hundreds of driver licenses with aliases, but none that said G Callen with his picture; G Callen was a ghost and apparitions weren't issued driver licenses. _

_The first LAPD officer picked up the conversation again. "Would you please put down the child and step outside with us for a moment, Mr. Callen." It sent shivers down his spine every time they used his real name._

_"Daddy. They taught us in school to always obey what a policeman says," the little girl stated factually, her serious blue eyes staring into his own blue ones._

_The second policeman took a step forward and Callen instinctively backed away, clutching the girl tighter. "Too tight Daddy," she gently complained._

_Without thinking, Callen dropped a light kiss on her tow-head locks. The nearer officer placed a warning hand on his service revolver and cocked his head slightly. "Outside. Now. Please," though the please did nothing to soften the request._

_"I understand," Callen said acknowledging the veiled threat, as he lowered onto one knee and gently placed the little girl's feet on the floor. "Go with," Callen racked his brain to come up with the name he heard earlier, "Henry. Go with Mrs. Henry and get ready for bed." The little girl flung her hand around his torso and gave him a final big hug, which caused the back of his dark blue t-shirt to hike up. Then she ran over to where Mrs. Henry was standing._

_Callen turned his back to the police officers as he rose, intending to address the older woman. However, he didn't even get out the first syllable before the policeman, who was closest to him, shouted "Gun!" and Callen was swiftly tackled to the floor by one officer while the other one drew his weapon and kept it trained on him. Callen felt his weapon being yanked from his back holster, as the police demanded "Down on the floor, hands where I can see them," which was a bit redundant since he was already laying face first on the wooden floor, though he did move his arms further from his body so the police could see they were empty._

_The little girl started screaming hysterically at the top of her lungs "Daddy, Daddy!"_

_"Get her out of here," Callen grunted from his prone position. Mrs. Henry took the sobbing girl by the hand and led her upstairs. The child flung one last "Daddy I love you" over her shoulder as she disappeared up the stairs and Callen's heart constricted with a feeling that he didn't often feel; open and honest love; the blind, trusting l__ove a small child has for its parents. He felt moisture well up in his eyes that had nothing to do with the tight cuffs the officer was placing around his wrists. _

_When his hands were securely cuffed behind his back, the officer hauled him roughly to his feet and marched him outside. Callen stumbled down the sidewalk, as they hauled him to the waiting police vehicle. Before shoving him in the backseat, they read him his rights and he acknowledged his comprehension of them. _

_"What am I being accused of?" Called demanded of the officers._

_The LAPD climbed in the front, which was separated from the back by the protective screen, before answering Callen's question. "You're under arrest for the alleged murder of your wife, Joelle Callen."_

_Callen sat back in the seat, internally stunned by the declaration, though he kept his face impassive. He didn't bother asking anymore questions, because he knew they wouldn't answer, so he silently stared out the window._

_Once they reached the station, he was put in an interrogation room, and left alone for forty-five minutes, before the door opened admitting a techie. The man swabbed his hands for residue before taking his fingerprints and leaving. Left alone again, it was another forty-five minutes before the door opened a second time and a portly man, in a rumpled, beige, suit plodded into the room. With a huff, he dropped his bulk onto the chair on the far side of the table, tossing a folder on the scarred, grey, surface in front of him. _

_"Why did you murder your wife, Mr. Callen?" he started without a preamble. _

_Callen leaned back in his chair and would have folded his arms over his chest, if they weren't still secured in handcuffs. His demeanor was one of boredom, mixed with a sprinkling of attitude. "I have no idea what you are talking about." The funny thing is it was actually the truth though Callen knew this caricature, from a bad police drama, would never believe his statement._

_The detective sighed and shook his head sadly. "Does it really have to be this way, Mr. Callen? You brutally murdered your beautiful wife. You have deprived your precious daughter of her Mommy and her Daddy, 'cause you, Mr. Callen, will be rotting in jail for the rest of your life that is unless you get the death penalty." Opening the folder, he tossed a picture of the little girl that was in Callen's house, on the table. "Your daughter will go into the foster care system. A shame really, she seems like such a sweet child," he surmised gazing at the photo. "But after a few years in the system..." he shrugged. "Well you know how it goes, don't you Mr. Callen."_

_Callen fought hard to keep any sort of emotion from showing on his face, though inside, he was crumbling. The detective sighed, as if the weight of the world was on his shoulders as he re-opened the folder, spreading more pictures on the table in front of Callen. "You're quite the marksman." He tapped one of the crime scene photos with his chubby index finger. "Very neat. Very precise. Two-tap straight thru the heart. Do you have military training, Mr. Callen?"_

_Callen's eyes were glued to the photo of the deceased woman. The detective was right; Callen did know her. It was Joelle. The second thing the Investigator was correct about was Callen had killed her. But her being his wife, having a daughter, shooting her in the heart, that was all wrong. _

_There was a brief knock on the door, before it opened and a woman came into the room and handed the detective another folder. The man took it, thanked the woman then, flipped open the cover and briefly scanned the contents. _

_While he did that, Callen let his eyes roam over the rest of the pictures, looking for some clue that would explain what was going on here. Nothing, other than the dead woman, looked vague familiar about the crime scene. The detective dropped the folder on the desk and shook his head slowly at Callen, who raised his cold eyes to stare at him. "Powder residue. Preliminary ballistics. Not looking good for you, pal. Only curious thing is your fingerprints haven't gotten a hit in any system yet. Call me a cynic, but I'd have bet dime to doughnuts you'd have a rap sheet. And," he added with a phlegmy laugh, "I like doughnuts a lot." As he stood, he gathered up the papers from the table, shoving them back into the folder. "Anything you'd like to say Mr. Callen?"_

_Callen simply stared at him, offering up nothing. _

_The detective shrugged and walked out of the room leaving Callen alone with his thoughts. Propping his elbows on the table, the weary agent cradled his head in his hands. He felt like he was watching a movie where he missed the first hour and was struggling to figure out the plot. Pieces made sense, but the overall picture was wrong._

_Yes, he had killed Joelle, but it was because she was holding Michelle hostage. Yes, he lived in that house, but alone and not with that much stuff in it. Yes, he had dated Joelle and was actually letting himself believe there might be something there, if he was to be honest with himself, but they were far from married. As for the little girl that had tugged at his heart strings, well that was totally out of left field. Yet, he had a fleeting thought that it had been nice to be called 'Daddy'._

_Callen quickly clamped his mind down before it could wander any further down that path. His line of work didn't lead to happy endings and he wasn't going to be the one that put a child in the foster care system because he was feeling the need to be loved. He'd been in the system and he had hated it. He understood its need, but he wasn't going to be the one that added to it. Part of him envied Sam and his family and admired him for being able to mostly balance their lives. However, he'd been around the Hanna household enough to realistically see the issues it caused. Sam was conflicted about his wife working. Michelle was conflicted about not working and their daughter was often unintentionally caught in the middle, no matter how well Sam and Michelle tried to keep her insulated from it. In his line of work, it was best to remain single, with no attachments._

_Wearily dropping his head and forearms on the table, he closed his eyes. _


	10. Chapter 10

The thunder and lightning had ceased, but the wind and rain were still going full force. The temperature had dropped a few degrees and the cave grew a bit chilly. Hetty noted her agent was shivering slightly, had rolled on to his good side and curled into a ball. There wasn't anything she could do to alleviate his discomfort. Though she knew part of his problem was temperature related, he was a restless sleeper at best. He tended to twitch and turn, as the demons of his nightmares tortured him. It was no wondered he tried to sleep as little as possible; it certainly wasn't restful for the man. With a small sigh, she went back to her meditating.

_When he opened his eyes, he was no longer wearing handcuffs, but he was dressed in prison clothes, being led down the hall by a guard. The door opened and Callen observed a typical prison visiting center with the chairs and tables bolted to the floor. At one of the tables, the little girl that called him Daddy sat, along with a stern looking woman who appeared that she would rather be anywhere but her present location. The blond child sat quietly, her eyes downcast, until the door opened and she spotted him. She screamed, "Daddy" and started to rise, but the woman reached over and tugged the girl back to a seated position._

_"Remember what we talked about? You must remain seated," the woman sternly lectured the child._

_The little girl's face clearly showed her disappointment. "But that is my Daddy. I want to hug him. Why can't I hug him?"_

_Callen could easily hear the conversation and his heart got that peculiar feeling again. With determination, he started walking towards the table, intending to give the girl a hug, but the guard brought him up short. _

_"There is to be no contact between you and the visitors. If you try, this visit will immediately be terminated," the guard sternly informed as he held him by the bicep._

_Callen gave a little shake, to dislodge the guard's hand, before slowly walking towards the table and sitting in the chair opposite his two visitors. Callen did a quick assessment of the woman at the table and pegged her as a social worker. If his instincts, honed over thirty-seven homes were correct, she wasn't one of the good ones._

_The little girl's face lit up with a smile again as he sat down, and she practically vibrated in her chair. She started to speak, but a severe glance from the social worker made her stop and cast her eyes downward._

_Callen went to address the little girl and then realized he had no idea as to her name so he went with a generic. "How are you doing honey?"_

_The girl raised her downcast eyes, gave a sideways glance at the woman sitting next to her and whispered, "I don't like it at the foster place. Mrs. Henry said she would keep me, but they said no." She rolled her eyes back towards the woman sitting next to her._

_The social worker, who could of course hear everything, sighed. "Mrs. Henry is not an approved foster parent."_

_Callen glanced from the social worker, to the little girl and back. "We'll get this fixed."_

_"Are there any other blood relatives we can contact, Mr. Callen?" the social worker questioned. Callen couldn't answer that question and the social worker took his silence as a no. "Then Amy will remain a ward of the state, until which time your incarceration is over; then there will be a hearing to determine custody."_

_The little girl's lower lip began to quiver. "What does she mean Daddy? Aren't you coming home? Where is Mommy? I keep asking but no one will tell me."_

_Amy. Her name was Amy. Callen reached out a hand towards the girl but a sound from the guard behind him made him stop. "Amy," he said softly, trying out her name, "I can't tell you what is going to happen yet. Some things need to get resolved. But while we are working to fix them, I need you to do something for me."_

_The blond child looked at him with adoring, loving eyes. "What Daddy?"_

_"I need you to be brave and to always remember that Mommy and Daddy love you very much," he said sincerely, his voice actually breaking a bit._

_"Of course Daddy," she replied sincerely. "But where is Mommy?"_

_Callen swallowed hard, not knowing how to answer. If Joelle was this little girl's mother, and if the photos the detective showed him were real, then the regrettable answer was the little girl's mother was dead. But none of this made sense to Callen, so he did what he knew best, lied._

_"Mommy went on a trip. It was unexpected. She's sorry she didn't get to tell you. But she said to say how much she loves you and will miss you." _

_There was no mistaking the look of disgust from the social worker at Callen's lie, but he didn't care. He also heard the snort of amusement from the guard, but luckily Amy picked up on none of these actions. She sat at the table, staring at him with her big blue eyes, believing every word. Callen had lied to thousands of people but this was definitely the worse and he hated himself for doing it, even if he felt it was the best for now. He wasn't going to destroy this little girl's life until he knew for sure what was going on and what was truth._

_The social worker shuffled her papers into a neat pile, scooped them up, grabbed the little girl's hand and made her rise from the table. "Time to go."_

_Amy's lip quivered again and her blue eyes got moist with tears. "I don't want to go," she cried pitifully but the lady just tugged on her hand, practically dragging her towards the exit._

_Callen rose to stop her but a hand clamped on his bicep and the whispered threat from the guard in his arm made him stop. He helplessly watched as the little girl was dragged, sobbing, and screaming from the room. Knowing it was stupid; Callen broke free of the guards grip, spun and delivered a swift blow to the man's stomach. The subsequent beating and isolation cell were worth it. What Callen wanted most now was to be left alone, and he had made his wish come true._


	11. Chapter 11

_Author's Note: We had a little interlude. Time to wake up on move on with the show. I promise I haven't forgotten the 'why Joelle'._

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><p>Hetty heard Callen cry out in his delirium, but she was not able to piece together what he was saying. She thought she detected the word Amy; whatever was going on in his fever-wracked brain was not pleasant. She thought to lay a comforting hand on his arm but then swiftly discarded the idea. The last time she had tried, he had not been receptive to it, even in an unconscious state; he shunned all forms of comfort. She felt helpless as she watched unbidden tears stream down his dirty face. When he showed signs of rousing, she pretended to be asleep to give him some time and privacy to compose himself; she knew he would be embarrassed having displayed what he would perceive as a weakness in her presence.<p>

Callen jerked awake and his eyes flew open as he scanned the area expecting to see the inside of a jail cell. His surroundings were dark, dank and depressing but they were definitely not the inside of a prison. His eyes and his mind slowly adjusted to the dim light, snips of memory came clear and be recalled where he was and what had happened. Tentatively, he touched his wet face and knew it had nothing to do, with rain. Glancing to his left he saw his boss, who appeared to be dozing, even though Callen would bet she was only pretending.

His eyes next went towards the mouth of the cave where it seemed the sky had lightened and the winds and rains abated to some degree. With a stifled groan, he gingerly stretched his cramped, stiff body and moved very gingerly from a prone, to seated position.

"How do you feel?" came the inquiry from the left.

Grimacing he replied, "Like I rolled my car, fell off a cliff and slept on a rock floor."

"So normal," came the witty reply and Callen found himself grinning. Hetty wasn't too far off; it did sort of sound like a normal day for him, at least at times. He reflected on that fact for a moment, then decided it was a kind of sad commentary on his life.

Hetty, who always managed to look cool and controlled, leveraged her petite form off the cave floor, walked over to where Callen sat leaning on the wall and brushed a hand across his forehead. "It would seem your fever has diminished," she remarked. "You looked like you were having some intense dreams." She expectantly blinked down at him as if she thought he would open up and share what had been torturing him but Callen looked away, out the cave's opening.

"Storm seems to have let up. I think we need to move." Rolling to his hands and knees, he sat back on his heels, then slowly rose to his feet. A bit unsteadily, he made his way to the front of the cave and peered up at the sky.

Quietly, Hetty moved along with him. "My beach residence is a few miles up the coast. We should be able to walk to it."

Still scanning the skies and keeping his eyes adverted from Hetty he said, "Sounds like a plan." Walking outside, he noted the sky was a sullen grey color and the seas were still churning, though at the moment, the rain had ceased and the wind, while brisk, was not unbearable.

Hetty, who had moved towards the edge of the cliff they had ascended, called out, "I think it would be easiest to climb down here," she indicated to an area with a wave of her hand. "Shall I go first?"

Callen, who didn't feel like climbing down the cliff, but knew it was their only option, had no objections to either the location or her going first so he gave her a curt nod. Agile as always, the little ninja descended quickly and competently. "Your turn," she called up from the beach in a tone that was way to chirper for Callen's present mood.

Stiff, sore and slowly, Callen made his wave down the rock face. When his feet touched the beach below, he let out a sigh of relief that he'd made it without falling.

"The house is that way," Hetty indicated pointing in a northerly direction.

They had no choice but to walk along the edge of the sea, on the narrow strip of beach, since the tide was still unusually high from the storm. Their shoes were quickly soaked and Callen debated between uncomfortable wet shoes and walking barefooted on the pebble strewn sand; he opted to leave his shoes on, though water was sloshing around his toes with each step.

They were also being kept perpetually damp by the ocean spray or a light drizzle from the storm. Callen wasn't sure which, but it really didn't matter since there was nothing he could do to stop either. He trudged along, head bowed, behind the dynamic ninja that was Hetty.

Mentally, Callen's mind decided to ignore the unpleasant journey his physical body was on and take and equally unwelcome road trip through the shooting of Joelle. As he plodded along, his brain analyzed the incident from every angle suggesting alternatives that might have prevented the death of Joelle. However, each scenario also increased the possibility of the death of Michelle. His subconscious decided to turn to the unpleasant thought of debating the choice between saving Michelle, Sam's wife and mother of his children or Joelle. That choice, however, was a no brainer for Callen; one hundred percent Michelle. Callen would do anything to protect Sam and his family. 'But,' his free-ranging mind prompted him, 'what if Joelle had been your wife? And you had children? What would you do then?'

Thankfully, Callen didn't have to answer his mind because Hetty slowed to a stop and Callen, so as not to run over her, had to turn his attentions back to the physical world.

"There," Hetty said pointing upwards, to the top of a bluff, where he could make out the silhouette of a house. "The stairs are right over here," she said moving towards the base of the cliff where Callen spotted a set of wooden stairs leading upwards. Hetty began the long ascent with Callen a few steps behind.

The stairs were arranged in shorter flights that zig-zaged and were separated by small platforms. Built into each platform was a locked box, in which equipment could be stored, along with various contraptions for holding kayaks, paddle boards, surf boards and other aqua toys.

By the time they reached the top of the cliff, Callen's ribs were aching along with his head and he was pretty sure the warm sensation on his leg was blood dripping down from the re-opened wound on his thigh. He really just wanted to sink to the ground and not move when they reached the top of the cliff but he knew that wasn't going to happen.

"This way," Hetty called out moving towards a huge deck that surrounded the back of the house. Walking up on the platform, she made her way across to a single wooden door on the right side which had an electronic lock securing it. After she punched in the code, there was a click and she opened the door.

"Handy," Callen remarked on the fact a key wasn't necessary for entry.

"Indeed. When I am kayaking or swimming, I don't have to worry about losing a key." Pushing the door fully open, Hetty entered, assuming Callen would follow.

When he got a glimpse of the pristine interior, he hesitated; he was filthy and it felt like if he entered, he would defile her adobe. As he stood there perplexed on the deck, the intensity of the storm picked up a little and a gust of wind caught the door, banging it against its doorstop.

"Are you coming in, Mr. Callen?" she inquired, peering at him out the door.

"I'm filthy," he said pitifully. He shrugged rather helplessly, then added, "I'll get your house dirty."

Hetty almost laughed out loud at him. It was comical to see her normally confident, cocky, arrogant super-spy cowed by the thought of marring her floors. However, she schooled her features knowing that he was tired, hurt and probably suffering a concussion, therefore not thinking too straight. "While it is tempting to tell you to go around the side of the house where I have an outside shower and clean up, given the storm," another gust of wind rattled the windows and rain started to fall more steadily, "that would be rather mean-spirited. Don't worry, the floors are tile and trust me they have seen worse than the likes of you. One time when Brian Wilson came to visit..."

Callen groaned and interrupted her. "Please Hetty. No celebrity stories. I'm not up for it."

Hetty made a slightly indignant 'humphing' noise but ceased telling her tale. "Well come inside then, before the storm gets any worse."

Callen walked onto off-white ceramic tile that comprised the kitchen floor and looked around the space. It was very clean and had a beachy feel to it with its wainscoting cabinets and blue accents. On a sunny day, the windows, which overlooked the sea below, must offer a wonderfully inspiring view. However today, with the doom and the gloom of the storm, it made Callen shiver a bit.

Hetty noted the tremors running thru her agent's body. "Down the hall, second door on the right, is a bathroom. Why don't you go take a warm shower. I'll see if I can find some clean clothes for you."

Callen was concussed, but not stupid, so he didn't pursue why she might have men's clothing at her house. He stiffly moved down the hall to the door indicated and went inside. It was a pretty standard bathroom with a beige tile walk in shower. Striping off his disgusting clothes, he turned on the water and waited while it adjusted to his setting. Stepping inside, he moaned as the warm water coursed down his cold, beaten body, until it hit the slash on his thigh and then he grimaced. The pain triggered his mind back to the fire escape and the horrible things that happened there. He sank to the bottom of the shower, drew his knees to his chest even though his thigh throbbed, and started to sob as the water cascaded over his body. Unable to stop his mind, it kept flashing pictures of happy times he had with Joelle, interspersed with the kill shot he placed in her head.

As he sat crying in the shower, Hetty came down the hall with an armful of clean clothes. Her keen ears detected the sounds, even under the cover of the water and she sadly sighed with remorse as she placed the clothes on the floor outside the bathroom door, once again respecting his privacy. As she straightened, she laid a wrinkled hand on the door for a second, as if she could provide comfort thru the wooden panel, before turning and heading down the hall to her own room to clean up. Life never seemed quite fair for Mr. Callen.

Eventually, Callen got in control of his emotions and he stiffly stood up and finished washing away the grime of the day. After towel drying off, he examined the wound on his leg, and then raided the medicine cabinet to see what was available to patch it up. His rationale mind told him it was deep and really needed stitches, but he ignored that suggestion as always. Instead, he found a box of the butterfly type bandages which he used to hold the edges together, after he doused it with disinfectant and smeared it with an antibiotic cream. After placing some gauze pads over the mess, he used a roll of gauze to hold everything in place. It wasn't neat, pretty or even AMA approved, but he thought it would serve its purpose.

When he was done doctoring his leg he looked around the bathroom for the promised clothes but didn't see anything, both grateful and surprised Hetty respected his privacy. Wrapping a towel tightly around his slim hips, he opened the door to the hallway and peered around, quickly spotting the clothes sit neatly on the floor to the right of the door. Grabbing them with haste, he retreated back into the steamy, warm bathroom.

Routing back in the medicine cabinet again, he didn't find much else useful, but a peek into the small linen closet in the bathroom was very fruitful. He found an unopened bottle of deodorant, unscented and ignoring the fact it probably was marketed for women, he rubbed it on. His luck continued with a Costco sized package of new toothbrushes, of which he abscond with a blue handled one, a tube of tooth brush and a razor, albeit pink. Running a hand over his stubble, which was only a little over a day old, he ignored the razor.

After he brushed he teeth, tidied the bathroom as best as he could, he got dressed, pulling on the sweatpants that were in the pile which were a little big, but nothing the drawstring couldn't handle. Callen wasn't sure if he was happy or sad the pile of clothes didn't contain a pair of underwear. While he didn't particularly like going commando, he wasn't sure the thought of Hetty having men's underwear lying around her house, wasn't more disturbing. The t-shirt, again, was one size larger than he normally would wear but it sufficed. The socks he ignored, choosing to remain barefooted.

Wrapping his dirty clothes in the towel he had taken from his waist, he opened the door and headed down the hall towards where he thought the kitchen was located. As his nose had foretold, he found Hetty in there making them some food.

"The laundry room is over there," she gestured towards a partially open door. "Feel free to toss those clothes in the washer. Sorry I don't have a better selection here for you."

"If you did, I'd be worried, not to mention finding it vaguely creeping and disturbing," he replied as he headed into the laundry room.

Tossing the clothes and towels into the washer, he looked around for soap before spotting a container of pods on the shelf. He personally liked the new product, finding them easier to use rather than pouring and measuring detergent. However, he had to admit, given his line of work, he often had to supplement with extra stain remover. He was surprised the finicky Hetty would find them acceptable. Speaking of acceptable, he was also sure he was breaking a few Hetty commandments by throwing whites, darks and towels into a single load, but he wasn't going to run the washer for one pair of pants and a shirt and he certainly wasn't going to ask Hetty if she had anything she could 'throw in'. He physically shuddered at the thought.

Starting the washer, he returned to the kitchen, sat on one of the stools by the island and observed as Hetty methodically moved about her space.

"I thought a light repast was in order given our ordeal and your concussion." She continued to chop some fresh vegetables with her back turned to him. As he suspected, her cuts were efficient and precise. "Tomato, pepper, onion and chorizo omelet. Unfortunately the mushrooms went slimy and I abhor canned ones. I do have some Asiago cheese I can add, if you'd like."

Callen shrugged noncommittally. "I like cheese. La señora quien tiene la gabacha es el chef. Can I help?"

"There is a Keurig on the cabinet and pods in the drawer underneath. While I would prefer a nice cup of brewed tea after our cold and miserable journey, I suspect you would prefer a strong cup of coffee. Have at it," she said breezily.

Callen slid off the stool and wandered over to the counter. Hetty was partially correct. He actually like coffee and tea equal well, and could drink his coffee anyway. However, he also liked to switch things up, just to confuse people. He rummaged through the drawer examining the coffee pods "Can I make you a cup of brewed tea?" he asked politely as he setup the machine to make his coffee.

"Thank you, but no," she answered in a tone that left no doubt that she thought him, making her 'proper tea', was a task outside his abilities.

When his mug was done, he removed it from the machine. "Do you have any milk and sugar?" he inquired.

Hetty turned from the stove and faced him. "That's right. I tend to forget you like your coffee light and sweet which seems to contradict the fact you also like it strong. Half-and-half in the refrigerator, sugar in the cabinet to the right. Why is that?"

"Why is what?" he asked as he rummaged in the fridge for the milk.

"Why do you want strong coffee, only to basically water it down?" she supplied as she turned her attentions back to her omelets.

"Easy." He poured a generous dollop of milk in his mug then pushed the fridge door shut with his foot which earned him a glare from his boss. After adding sugar, again in a freehanded manner, he sat back down on the stool and took a large slug, sighing as the sweet nectar slid down his throat. "Growing up, often the milk was slightly off because it was old."

Hetty added the diced vegetables to the omelet, and then moved to add a few slices of bread to the toaster. "Why drink coffee at all?"

Callen gave a little bark of a laugh. "Well good tea was not available. The milk was usually rancid. Soda was frowned upon because the last thing foster parents want is sugar-crazed inmates. OJ was expensive in the quantities we would go thru and the water, well have you tasted untreated California water? Coffee was really the only choice. Besides," he said taking a sip from his cup, frowning, and turning to look out the kitchen window. "I needed caffeine to stay awake. To make sure..." he paused a beat, "nothing happened."

Hetty turned around to look at him, only to find him totally engaged with staring out the window. "I suppose that is a root cause of your long-term insomnia." He neither confirmed nor denied her statement, so she turned away to tend the food again.

Silence reigned in the kitchen during the rest of the meal prep, other than the sizzle of the food and the ding of the toaster. She placed homemade jam, butter, and cinnamon sugar on the table, added a pitcher of what appeared to be fresh squeezed orange juice, then the toast and omelets. When everything was set, she motioned him to the table and he wandered over with his half-finished mug of coffee.

Callen did a pretty good job tucking away all the food Hetty placed in front of him. It was delicious and he couldn't remember when he last ate. As she poured him another glass of OJ, he inquired, "Fresh squeezed?"

"Of course. There are a few trees in the side yard. I popped out there, grabbed a few and gave them a good squeeze," she said matter-of-factly drawling out the word squeeze.

He saluted her with his glass. "Only you Hetty."

When they were finished, Callen helped her with the dishes in that he carried them to the counter but she wouldn't let him load them in her dishwasher, informing him he wouldn't do it right.

Callen didn't bother arguing with her. As he glanced out the side window, he noticed there were no other lights on in the surrounding neighborhood; yes the house was somewhat secluded, but he still should have been able to see something. "You running on a jenny?"

"Yes. Wired directly into the house. Automatic rollover when the power goes out. Up here we lose power frequently." She closed the door on the dishwasher but didn't start it as it wasn't full yet; always the frugal Hetty.

"Huh. You must go thru a lot of gas," he remarked as he followed her from the kitchen into a living room with floor to ceiling windows overlooking the ocean.

"Propane. Worse case so far was about 10 days back in 1992." She made herself comfortable in an overstuffed chair that nearly swallowed her up within its blue and white striped massiveness. However, once she tucked her legs up into the chair it seemed much more fitting, like a nest. Callen choose another nautical-theme chair which had an ottoman nearby and propped up his aching leg.

Hetty looked pointedly at his elevated limb. "How is the wound? Perhaps I should take a peek at it?"

"It's fine. You'll do no peeking. Are we clear on that?" He pinned her to her nest with his laser-focused, blue-eyed stare.

"As you wish, Mr. Callen. Have I ever treated you against your wishes?" she asked innocently, totally ignoring his glare.

Callen sat up a little straighter in his chair. "You're joking right? You do it all the time."

Hetty slowly shook her head and wagged a crooked finger at him. "I think you are mistaken. I have near treated you after you expressly told me not to help."

Callen's voice raised an octave. "Are you nuts? I have been unconscious a lot of times and woke only to find you have somehow medically treated me, usually with a needle or some other sharp object."

"True, but you didn't expressly tell me not to aid you," she pointed out sweetly.

Eyebrows raised with indignation, Callen exclaimed, "But I was unconscious! How could I tell you to leave me alone?"

"Exactly. Therefore my original statement still is valid." She snuggled down in her chair further and blinked at him thru her glasses.

Callen's brow furrowed because technically she was correct. "How about the time you shoved the stick down my throat to check my gag reflect?"

"Did you tell me not to do that?" she swiftly countered with a bit of an evil grin.

"No, because I didn't know you were going to do it," he retorted. She still gazed calmly at him with a smug smile and he scowled harder. Technically, she was still right. "Ok. New ground rules. No working on me when I am unconscious. No sneaking up on me and performing medical procedures of any sort. Unless you look me straight in the eye, tell me exactly what you are going to do and I verbally give you permission, hands off."

"What if you are unable to respond? If you are grievously wounded? You want me to sit there and do nothing? However would I explain that to Director Vance? I think that course of action would lead to a very uncomplimentary report in my personnel file," she concluded with a flourish.

Callen drummed his fingers on the thigh of his good leg. She did have a point. Some sort of compromise was required but his headache, which had returned full force, made it unbearable for him to even try to think of a solution. "We'll talk more, later."

"Just for clarification, until then, if you should pass out on my floor, am I allowed to help? You really are looking awfully pale."

Callen laid his head back in the chair and massaged his temples. "Yea, I guess. But make sure I really can't respond and no matter what, no needles."

"Shall I get some aspirin and an ice pack for your head?" she asked compassionately.

"Please," Callen gratefully responded.

Hetty crawled out of the chair and headed for the kitchen. "But since we have not fully finished this conversation, I must warn you, I will do what I think best, if the situation warrants it," she added as she disappeared into the kitchen.

Callen only groaned and wished he was unconsciousness now. "You always do anyway."

Hetty returned promptly with the aforementioned items and Callen gratefully accepted them. The two sat quietly in the near dark living room watching the fury of the storm outside the windows. If this had been a hurricane, it would have been like they were on the backside of the storm having passed thru the calm eye and now being hit with the other wall full force again. The sea was a churning mass of angry grey waves and both agents were happy to be inside a house and not back in the cave, especially when the lightening started up again.

When Hetty saw Callen drifting in and out of sleep in the chair, she got up and showed him to her guest room. He quietly thanked her, shut the door and gently lowered his aching body on the plush bed. It felt so good and he hoped for once his traitorous mind would let him sleep in peace.


	12. Chapter 12

_Author's Note: As I said in an earlier note, I think of this story as having three parts. This chapter ends part two. As always, thanks for the reviews and corrections. Since we all do this for fun, not profit, the joy of reading everyone's interesting reviews is like getting a nice 'bonus'. Oh yes, this chapter explains Joelle's motives. Told you I didn't forget. Lol._

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><p>Callen got four hours of sleep before his nightmares drove him from the bed. Though he wasn't able to precisely recall them, he thought the mystery blond-child, who claimed to be his daughter, had played a prominent role in them. We woke to the feelings of anxiety, despair and profound remorse; one thing he was absolutely sure of, was he didn't want to go back to sleep. Instead, he wandered into the kitchen, rummaged thru Hetty's cabinets for a glass, and then filled it with water.<p>

While he was sipping the cool liquid, he noted Hetty's counters were totally clear of appliances. The toaster and the Keurig, which he knew had been on the granite yesterday, were missing. The tiniest of smiles crept across his face; he'd bet anything that the tiny ninja hid them, afraid of his nocturnal disassembling habit.

The smile faded from his face as he wandered back into the living room and stood by the tall, unadorned windows, peering outside into the murky darkness. Callen's weather-sense told him the worst of the storm had passed. He eased into a chair with a view of the outside, even though he couldn't see much; it was hours before the first light of dawn would reach these shores. His mind, unharnessed, wandered into places Callen didn't want to go. However, the exhausted agent found it impossible to corral his sub-conscious. Gruesome images flashed thru his mind, interspersing him killing Joelle, with the little blond girl calling him Daddy. Happy memories of him and Joelle at the beach, at Sam's house with his family, in intimate hideaways, romped mercilessly thru his synapses followed by bloody images of Joelle laying on the fire escape; the blonde child about to be beaten by a man. As his mind dug deeper into the fears of his psyche, even worse images rotated by; Hetty dead in the Subaru, Deeks laying on a road with a gunshot to the head; Kensi, in uniform, buried under rocks in the desert; Nell, throat slit in the boatshed, Eric, blown up on the roof of an industrial building; Sam in a coffin in his dress blues, Michelle and Jasmine crying by the side.

With a muffled scream, he locked his hands behind his head, pressed his forearms to his face and doubled over in the chair. His battered body cried about in pain, especially the wound on his thigh when it came in contact with his elbow. Dry sobs wracked his inverted body. How could he have been so stupid? Why had he started to open a door he knew was better left shut, locked, bolted and chained! Why had he allowed things with Joelle to go so far? He knew what his life was like, what his job entailed. He understood his past and present, yet he had been dumb enough to start to open up? To a total stranger?

Yes, Joelle had been Sam and Michelle's daughter's kindergarten teacher. Yes, Joelle and Michelle had become friends. Yes, on the outside Joelle and Callen seemed to have interests in common. But still, to start down THAT path...

Callen's despair and pain metamorphosed into blazing white anger. Not at Sam, or Michelle, or Hetty or even Joelle, but at himself. He had acted like the biggest, stupidest, jackass of all time allowing himself to trust another human being. Hadn't his entire life taught him to trust someone, anyone, was the worst thing to do? As a young child, until he had quickly learned better, hadn't trust only lead to beatings, humiliation and heartbreak? In the letter alphabet of agencies he had worked for over the years, hadn't trust lead him to be kicked out of one, framed in another and seriously injured in a third? Hadn't he learned that partners couldn't be trusted, that they would sell you out, leave you behind, break your heart and walk away?

He was still tightly hugging his head to his knees, berating himself, when Hetty flowed into the room. Dressed in a pale pink, flowered, silk robe that probably was authentic and from the orient, Hetty glided into the semi-dark room and perched on one of the room's multiple ottomans. Callen heard her come in, wished she would go away, but knew that it wasn't going to happen.

Hetty first glanced at hunched-over figure that was Callen, then out the windows, noting the storm had lessen appreciably, though her instincts, which were rarely wrong, told her an even greater storm was brewing inside her living room. "Couldn't sleep?"

Though he didn't change his position, the man in the other chair sarcastically replied, "Don't worry. Your appliances are all intact."

Wagging a finger at him she replied, "Only because I hid them from you."

Callen drew a deep breath, put his game face on, slowly righted himself and shrugged with disinterest. "I'm a trained operator. I think I could have found them, if I cared to try." Ever the agent, he had trained his features to show boredom with a hint of disdain as he settled back in his chair, adopting a casual posture.

"Maybe. But I'm a trained operative too," she reminded him as she watched his transformation. The man was really good. A minute ago he was a wreck and now he appeared as cool as a cucumber with only the faintest of redness around the eyes to betray him. However, she wasn't going to let him get away with it. "As much fun as it is to debate, if I could hide something so you couldn't find it, especially at 3:00 am in the morning, that's not what this is about, is it."

His voice, when he answered, was a combination of anger, anguish and a minuscule hint of anxiety. "I don't want to talk about this, Hetty," he warned.

"What actually is 'this' Mr. Callen? She crossed her ankles and settled deeper onto the ottoman.

"I don't want to talk about anything." With nervous energy, despite his injuries, he burst out of the chair and stalked across the floor to stand by the window. "I want you to go to bed and leave me alone."

"I could do that," Hetty said philosophically. "But then you wouldn't learn what I have uncovered so far about Joelle and come morning, when I wake and find you gone, there won't have another opportunity to tell you. That is what you are planning to do isn't it? Run. Disappear," she demanded and the flinch between his shoulder blades told her she had hit the target square on.

"You make it sound like I'm a five-year-old boy, running away from home," Callen said bitterly as he lifted his head higher to gaze at the night sky.

Sadness crept into her eyes as she stared at the back of the man she own thought of as son. "I know you, Mr. Callen and no matter what I say, come morning you will be gone. I am only asking two things of you."

"Yea? What." Callen's tone offered no promises, no hope.

Leaning forward a bit on the ottoman, her voice intensified. "One. Go if you must, but not for too long. Two, hear me out before you leave. Believe it or not, this had nothing to do with you for once. This was all about Michelle and you just happened to be a means to an end." Hetty knew that sounded cruel, but she wanted to make sure she had his attention. She waited a few beats, and then continued. "After the shooting, I had Eric and Nell dig into Joelle background. She did a fairly good job trying to cover her tracks, but not much gets by our wonder twins when they put their mind's to it."

Callen turned from the window, folded his arms across his chest and stood facing Hetty, but he made no move to sit. Hetty couldn't accurately read the man standing in front of her at the moment, though she thought saw both defiance and despair in his stance. He already appeared closed off from her and she wasn't sure he would even listen to what she had to say, but she had to try. "Joelle was trying to hurt Michelle. She was convinced that Michelle let her husband die in an incident that occurred ten years ago. Joelle's husband was a drug dealer who cut a deal with the CIA to provide evidence against his bosses. Michelle was assigned to the case, her job to protect Joelle's husband until he provided his testimony at the trial."

Callen unfolded his arms and let them hang by his side as a little defiance drained from him. "It didn't go as planned," he surmised.

Hetty sadly shook her head. "It did not. After the trial, Michelle was at a safe house with him and his wife, Joelle, though at that time her name was Karen. The next day, Karen and her husband were scheduled to enter into the witness protection program. However, members of the gang he had testified against found out their location, broke in and killed him right in front of her. Joelle accused Michelle of not properly protecting her husband saying Michelle had stood there while the men shot and killed her husband in cold blood."

"What did the investigation find," Callen inquired, knowing the CIA must have conducted one.

"Michelle was cleared. The agency said she was not at fault. They traced the leak to the firm that had serviced the furnace. Somehow the furnace company figured out it was a safe house and sold that info to the gang who had ties to the man Joelle's husband testified against. Fate is fickle mistress."

Callen slowly moved over to a chair and lowered his aching body into it. "That was ten years ago."

"Joelle was both patient and thorough in her quest for revenge and not without means. Seems her husband left her well off, money the government either didn't know about or couldn't seize. For whatever reason, she couldn't seem to let her husband's death go and it became her mission to seek revenge."

"Why didn't Michelle recognize her? When they first met?" Callen asked in a puzzled tone.

"Plastic surgery, change of hair color and style; enough that she fooled everyone to include Michelle. Nell even found documents that showed Joelle had gone to a voice coach." Hetty gazed out the window for a few seconds. "Such hatred she must have had towards Michelle to make revenge her life's work. Nell and Eric are still working on piecing the story together."

Callen dropped his chin on his chest. "It is amazing someone would go through that much trouble for revenge."

Hetty returned her gaze to him and couldn't keep a little humor from coloring her tone. "This coming from a man whose family has been hunted for more than 50 years by a group of gypsies?"

A brief smile touched Callen's gave as raised his head. "Touché. Why didn't she just kill Michelle the first time she had a chance?"

"Who knows," Hetty shrugged. "And we will never know for sure, since Joelle is dead and can't explain. However, I have a theory."

"Do tell," he encouraged with a slight cock of his head.

Hetty smoothed an imaginary wrinkle out her silk dressing gown. "I don't think Michelle ever was the target. I think Sam was the one who was supposed to die. I think the minute Joelle discovered Michelle was married; it became her plan to kill him."

Callen face was thoughtful as he ran his thumb over his lower lip. "She wanted Michelle to suffer as she had. But why wait so long? She had formed a friendship with Sam and Michelle while she was Jasmine's teacher, but that was more than a year ago."

Hetty spread her wrinkled hands wide. "I don't know. If you waited ten years to plot the perfect revenge what is a few more. Perhaps, she wanted to make sure Sam and Michelle were truly in love. After all, she wanted Michelle to be as distraught by Sam's death as she was by her husband's demise."

"Joelle wasn't distraught, she was deranged. And I didn't see any signs of it," Callen said in a self-accusatory tone.

"Everyone plays the fools now and then, even you, even me. We were all fooled, Mr. Callen," but she knew he wasn't listening.

"How did you know Michelle was there?" Callen questioned, still working to make the puzzle pieces fit.

"Michelle called into the Ops Center, but she pretended she called Sam. Joelle must have somehow gotten the drop on Michelle in the apartment, held her a gunpoint and forced Michelle to call Sam to meet them." Folding her hands in lap, Hetty continued. "Michelle called us instead."

Callen gave a little nod. "Smart move."

"Indeed. Michelle is a remarkable woman. She pretended to tell 'Sam' in this case Eric that she needed him to come pick her up immediately, that she was feeling unwell and unable to drive; however Michelle didnt mention it was Joelle. That is how we got alerted to the situation then we got satellite coverage on the area. When Michelle and Joelle moved out on the fire escape, my guess is to watch for Sam's arrival, we had eyes on the situation. That is when I had Nell alert you and Sam. But we couldn't see who the person was holding her hostage."

"She had that hoodie covering her head," Callen pointed out. "Only Michelle knew and she knew by calling Ops..."

"There was a high likelihood I would send in Sam and you..."

"And one of us would have to kill Joelle," Callen concluded.

"Either case was untenable. Sam forced to kill his best friend's girlfriend, or you having to kill the woman you were falling in love with." Hetty knew her words it home by the scowl on Callen's face.

Callen leaned back in the chair again, resting his head against the blue cushions and closing his eyes. After a few minutes of silence, he opened them and moved his head so he could stare Hetty in the eyes. "I want out," he stated flatly, voice devoid of all emotion.

"I don't understand," Hetty neutrally replied.

"I don't want to work as part of a team anymore. I want to work alone," Callen demanded of her in a tone that brooked no argument.

Hetty unfolded her hands and held them up in front of her in a gesture of confusion. "I don't understand why you are making this request," even though she knew exactly why. She hoped to keep him talking, to maybe find a way to work thru what was becoming a dangerous situation.

"I tried Hetty. I really did. For six years I have done my best to work with the team you built for me. But I can't anymore. I won't!" Callen adamantly slapped his good leg with an angry fist. "The responsibility is too much."

"Too much?" Hetty parried trying to make him see reason. "Too much? How many times have you held the fate of the Los Angles in your hands? Or the whole of the United States? More times than I care to remember," Hetty said with a slight shudder. "And yet working with a team is too much responsibility?"

"You know I care about the fate of the people of the United States. You know I would die for my country. But the fate of my team has become way too personal." Callen bowed his head and softly whispered, "I don't want to deal with that."

"In the last six years you have lost people, Macy, Dom..."

"People die in this job. I get that!" Callen exclaimed.

"But now it is much more personal."

Callen kept his head bowed. "Are you saying I didn't care that Macy and Dom died cause you know that is a lie Hetty!"

Hetty's voice grew hard, as she tried to force him to get his feelings in the open. "But you never opened yourself to them. You kept Macy and Dom, hell everyone, outside the walls of fortress Callen." Hetty heard the hitch in his breathing, knew her comments were hitting home and she pressed forward. "But that has changed. You have learned to trust, in a fashion, and it is scaring the pants off of you. That's what this is about, what you are trying to run away from; the fact that the mighty fortress that is Callen has been breached."

"Damn you, Hetty," Callen said low and slow and when he raised his head his eyes were filled with pain and despair. "You did this to me. You pushed me to trust even though you knew it went against everything I have ever experienced. You made me care!"

"Oh, Mr. Callen. You sell yourself short. You have always cared, more than you ever are willing to admit, even to yourself. Even as a child, half of the times you got in trouble were because you cared about another child and tried to help no matter what the cost to your own well-being. I watched you grew up. I know," Hetty definitively finished.

Callen turned his head away, not denying what Hetty said about his childhood. As he started to speak, his voice grew hard and cold. "Yea, I don't like when the innocent are preyed upon. No one deserves that. But even as a child, when I was trying to save someone, I never trusted them and that didn't change when I grew up. My motto was never trust anyone."

Hetty rose from the ottoman and moved in Callen's direction. "And that left you a broken man, whether you realize or admit it to yourself." She stopped when, like a trapped wild animal, he quickly rose and moved away from her.

"Where has trust got me in the last six years?" he addressed his comments to the ocean.

Hetty's voice softened. "Your elementary venture into trust, has lead you to realize the possibly of another emotion, love."

Sounding like a petulant teenager, he spat out, "Love sucks."

Hetty burst out laughing. "It certainly does. But it is also wondrous." Her tone turned serious again. "You had begun to trust Joelle and venture down the path that perhaps would have led to love."

Callen spun away from the window and faced her again, his voice angry. "And look what that got me!"

"Just because it didn't work out this time, doesn't mean you should give up forever," Hetty tried to rationally point out to the upset agent.

"Yeah, it does. I made it forty-some years without it and I think I'll just stay on that path."

"Ah, but you are mistaken." Hetty turned away from him, walked over to a pale blue chair and sat down. She looked up at him, her blue eyes sincere behind her thick glasses. "Your mother and father loved you, as did your sister Amy."

Callen tossed off a bitter laugh. "Yea? And what did that get them. Dead."

Hetty ignored him and continued. "And whether you want to accept it or not, people today love you. Sam, me..."

Finally, the crux of the matter hit the table as Callen shouted, "That's the exact point. Love makes people vulnerable. You have made me vulnerable. I don't think I could survive Sam's death or yours." Callen shook with emotion and sweat dripped down his back as he stood in the middle of the living room having his soul stripped bare.

"Everyone dies, some day, Mr. Callen."

"Yea, well maybe I don't want to be around to see it," he harshly shot back.

"Running away isn't the answer. Shutting yourself off isn't the answer. You will still feel the pain, only you will be alone, with no one to share it with you. No one to help you get thru it."

The emotions inside of Callen were churning worse than the seas during the height of the storm. He felt tossed and buffeted about and didn't know where to turn. He needed refuge from this maelstrom.

Hetty sensed she had gone as far as she could and the rest was out of her hands. She silently rose from her chair, walked over and laid a gentle hand on Callen's forearm before turning and leaving the room. As she walked down the hall, she hoped against odds he would still be in the house when the sun rose, though being a realistic, she knew it was highly unlikely. She only hoped she gave him enough to think about that while he would surely run, he would also surely return.

Callen watched the closest thing he had to a mother shuffle from the room, knowing in is heart, he was going to disappoint her again. However, there was also a small portion of his soul, tucked far away, that knew he had it in him to return, if he could find the courage; an odd thought for a man who faced danger day in and day out. But he would rather be looking down the barrel of a Russian machine gun than face his emotions any day of the week.

He went back into the bedroom, put on his clothes which had been cleaned and dried, stuffed his meager possessions in his pockets, slipped his feet into his almost dry boots and headed out. As he passed thru the kitchen, he debated about leaving a note then nixed the idea; there was nothing to say, no promises to make, no sentiments to express. As he stepped out into the first morning light, he hesitated and for a moment, he almost thought he might be able to overcome the urge to run. This small indication, that maybe he could change his lone wolf way, unnerved him and drove him out the door even faster. Maybe the damn witch had gotten to him after all.


	13. Chapter 13

His scruffy, faded yellow duffel bag lay beside his feet, while his well-worn bedroll was propped up against the brown, recycled plastic bench he was sitting on contemplating the serene water. The day was turning warm, but the breeze off the water was keeping it comfortable. He was sitting, taking a break, from his self-imposed trek up the coast. Less than two miles to the north of his current position, were large commercial fishing docks, where he knew he could pick up ad hoc work on one of the myriad of fishing trawlers that called the port home. It was what he felt he needed at the moment; a short span of mind numbing work that would let him escape and maybe forget the past, if only for a couple of weeks. Having done this before, he knew he could find a berth with a crew on a boat that would be out to sea for four weeks, until the ship reached her quote or until the hull was full, forcing them back to land. It was hard, back breaking work, with an element of danger, which perfectly suited his current mood.

Callen sensed the man approaching, was surprised, and wary, when the stranger plopped down on the bench next to him. The agent gave a sideways glance to his new companion but didn't otherwise acknowledge his existence. The man, who was in his early-sixties, had a short, greying, no-nonsense haircut, was and tan. "You ex-military?" the man started conversationally.

Callen fully turned his head to give a cold, hard, stare to the older man but he declined to answer his question.

The man was nonplussed, letting his observant eyes wander to the bedroll and duffle bag before shifting them upwards to peer at the boats moored at the marina. "Me, I'm retired Navy. Happily gave Uncle Sam 30 years of my life before we amicably parted. After that, I bummed around for a bit; took me awhile to adjust to civilian life. Worked on a few commercial fishing boats in the day. You know the work."

The man paused, leaving a sociable gap so Callen could chime in with his back story. However, Callen appeared disinterested and remained mute, but that didn't stop the man, who continued with his tale. "So one day I decided I wanted to work for myself. Tired of taking orders. So I bought myself an old, but reliable Luhrs and started my own day-for-hire fishing business."

Callen couldn't help wondering why this guy felt the overwhelming need to regurgitate his life story to a total stranger. The blond was pretty sure he was radiating a negative vibe that said 'leave me the hell alone', but the man kept right on yapping.

"It's not a bad life. I take charters when I want and I refuse when I want. Plenty of fresh air and sunshine, and I turn enough profit to live a comfortable lifestyle."

Callen was seriously considering getting up and walking away when the man turned, reached out and placed his hand on Callen's arm. The agent constrained himself from overreacting and merely shook his arm, as if a fly had landed on it, instead of punching the guy in the face. The man quickly removed his hand; the message had been received.

"You looking for work?" the talkative stranger asked his green eyes boring into Callen's icy blue ones.

"Heading up North," Callen finally spoke with a jerk of his chin in the indicated direction. "Gonna catch a berth on a commercial trawler."

The guy shifted his eyes back to the water. "Hard work. Honest. Can be good pay, depending on the Captain. Dangerous at times though." He paused for a beat before he added, "Guessin' you're no stranger to that." The man already knew Callen wasn't going to respond to his comment about danger and Callen didn't disappoint him as silence reigned. However, this was a game, like chess, that the man knew how to play, so he advanced one of his pieces.

"Weather supposed to be great tomorrow, though this is California so what else do you expect, right?"

Callen have a little non-committal shrug.

"Got a charter day after tomorrow. Four business men. Ya know the type. They'll come onboard with their cooler of fancy beers and cigars, drink, smoke, and pretend to be macho he-men. Come Monday morning, they'll be back in their boardrooms swapping war stories with their buddies about the one that got away, even if their line never hits the water. It's all about appearances, like so many things in life." The move was complete so he sat back and waited for his opponent's counter.

The man glanced over to see how Callen was reacting and saw nothing but a blank face; the guy either had great control or was deaf. "Anyways, the guy I use as a second mate can't do this trip. Broke his leg in a motorcycle accident and is laid up so I'm short-handed. Like to have a second, experienced hand on deck; these board types are useless in an emergency." The man paused again to peer over at Callen, whose face remained neutral. "Don't suppose you'd consider delaying your journey for a bit, to lend me a hand?"

Turning his head and tilting it slightly, Callen studied the man. "Do you always go around hiring strangers off of park benches?"

A small smile crept across the older man's face as he held out his hand. He had just achieved a minute victory with this guy. "Hi. My name's Ray Starkey. Captain of the Ripple. And you are?"

"Not interested," Callen curtly replied as he started to reach for his bag and bedroll.

Ray wasn't disappointed by the brush off and had been expecting it. It was all part of the game so he pressed forward. "You'd be doing me a favor and I pay fair. Not as good as the big boys on them trawlers, but a decent wage. And the most dangerous thing on my trips is bandaging some numb-nuts finger when he gets a lure stuck in it."

Ray looked expectantly at Callen, who was sitting very still except for his forefinger and thumb on his right hand, which were rubbing circles on each other. A very, very small tell, that told Ray he was making progress. Ray pushed a little harder. "Look. I'm a bit of a student of human nature. I know a man who is a bit down on his luck and running from something, when I see one."

Callen, who had started to reach for his stuff, hesitated, even though his instincts were screaming at him to high-tail-it.

"I don't care about your past or your future for that matter. Only the here and now. Now, I need help. Now, you are here. Match made in heaven," he concluded with a little swish of his right hand.

"Seems like a dangerous way to do business," Callen scathingly pointed out. "Hiring strangers off a park bench."

Ray smiled again. "Not if you trust your instincts and mine are telling me you are as tough as they come, but you're also one of the good guys."

Callen narrowed his eyes and his voice grew hard and frigid. "What if you're wrong about me? Maybe I'll wait for the right moment, break your neck, dump you overboard and make off with your boat."

Ray's gut told him this guy had the skills to do exactly what he threatened. However, Ray was also sure the 'tough boy speech' he had just been fed was all part of an act, so he laughed heartily. "Well, I guess there are worse ways to die. But I'm betting that murder isn't your style." Ray grew serious again. "Nah. More likely you will blow me off and be on your lonesome way. And if that's what you want to do, I can't stop ya."

Ray wasn't the only one with a gut instinct and Callen's was telling him this guy was the genuine article. A man that had probably seen some hard times, lived through them and liked to help others out because of it. He wouldn't want anything, expect anything, and would be a man of his word.

Callen chewed on the inside of his cheek as he thought about the offer. He knew it was probably stupid but he was very tempted to take this man up on it. It might be nice to have some company for a few days and as that thought crossed his mind, it nearly floored Callen. Had the lone wolf been partially domesticated by hanging around people too much? Had Hetty's plan to socialize him actually had some effect on his damaged psyche? Was the tribe of one actually displaying the need for people? A hint of trust in a total stranger? So not the mindset he had been in, when he stormed out of Hetty's house.

Ray remained quiet, sensing a mini-war going on in the stranger that sat next to him on the bench. He had to give the man credit. He was very good at masking his emotions, controlling his body language and skillfully, yet unobtrusively manipulating those around him. Ray knew this because he was an expert in that genre too.

Ray had been in the Navy for thirty years, as what the layman would call a psychologist, though profiler was probably a more accurate term for what he did; he had been very good at his job. Ray was an expert on reading, profiling, and getting information out of people. Then after 30 years of looking for the worse in everyone, he wanted to start looking for the good, so he put in for retirement.

Ray had kind of fallen into the charter business. He'd been walking by a boatyard one day and saw a 'for sale' sign on an older Luhr. Not to do personification on the boat, but she had seemed kind of sad and lonely to Ray, as she sat amongst her newer, sexier, shinier sisters, and he felt a kinship. He got a good deal on her because she needed some work, but it had been mostly cosmetic; nothing some good old-fashion elbow grease couldn't resolve. It wasn't long before he had her looking as spiffy as her more cosmopolitan brethren.

After a few false starts, he decided the charter business truly agreed with him and he began the second phase of his career as a charter captain. He got to meet a lot of new people, as well as develop a nice stable of regulars and he made enough income for his rather simple wants and needs. Unable to resist, he found himself analyzing the people that chartered his vessel, and it was fun to keep his hand in the game, in this informal manner.

The middle-aged man next to him was an enigma and for some reason, Ray found he had a burning desire to unravel this mystery. However, it wasn't all about him satisfying his curiosity. Ray genuinely liked to help those who were troubled and he sensed this man needed his assistance. Whether the man would accept was left to be seen.

Breaking the long silence Ray asked, "So we got a deal? Whaddya say we seal it over a burger and beer over at the Tidewater."

Callen glanced down at his bedroll, then out over the boats in the marina before making up his mind. "Why the hell not," he said moving his eyes back to Ray.

The big smile reappeared on the elder's man face. "Good. Let's stow your gear on the Ripple and head over to the grill. I'm hungry."

Ray got up off the bench and headed down into the marina. Flinging his bedroll over his shoulder and grabbing his duffel, Callen trailed after Ray down the sun-bleached wooden dock. He came to a halt in front of a 42 ft. cabin cruiser, which was white with royal blue trim. She was definitely an older gal Callen noted, but she looked in meticulous condition. On the transom was the name 'Ripple', done in squiggly letters that rather looked like ripples in the water.

Ray moved to her port side and clambered onboard, stepping spryly over the rail and down on to the aft deck. Callen nimbly followed after him, though he stumbled slightly as he dropped onto the deck. Ray noted the slightly clumsy landing and filed it in the back of his mind as he unlocked the cabin door and gestured towards the inside. "Stow your gear on the couch for now," he pointed to a long, yellow, cushion on the port side of the cabin. Sensing Callen's hesitation, Ray backed away from the cabin door and moved to the far side of the stern, not wanting Callen to feel threatened or boxed in. This guy had a hefty sense of paranoia, Ray noted, adding that fact to the profile he was building in his mind. Ray did his first bit of analysis on Callen guessing whatever he did for a living, being watchful and careful of one's surroundings played an important role.

Callen stepped down into the area, eyeing everything around him as he set his stuff on the couch on the left side of the cabin. There was a small galley and table to his right and beyond that a piloting area for use in nasty weather. The couch and a cabinet took up most of the port side along with a small area behind a closed door that Callen assumed was the head. Towards the front was a door, that Callen figured lead to a sleeping area situated under the bow. Everything in the cabin was neat and tidy; no clutter or stuff lying around.

Callen returned to the deck and Ray moved towards the cabin door to secure it. After dropping the key in his pocket, he said, "Let's go. I'm starving." As an experiment, Ray clapped Callen on the shoulder as he walked by and stealthily watched, for the man's reaction. Ray detected a slightly tensing in the man's shoulders and his right bicep as he if were readying himself to fight. Another entry went into Ray's profile; this man didn't like people in his personal space and he would fight his way out if the need arose. Experiment over, Ray continued past Callen, then up and over the rail.

Once they were up on the dock proper, Callen fell into stride alongside of Ray. The blond agent noted that Ray was a good three inches taller than him and fairly muscular, though certainly not as ripped as Sam. A faint scowl crossed Callen's face as he thought of his partner and his team back home.

The facial gesture was not missed by Ray, but he had no idea what triggered it. Out of the corner of his eye, Ray continued to watch the man next to him confidently walk up the dock and wondered what internal demons haunted a man who portrayed such self-assurance on the outside. Quite the enigma, he had next to him.

When they arrived at the Tidewater, Ray greeted the hostess by name and was warmly acknowledged in return. The two men were shown to a four top, in the corner, overlooking the docks. Instinctually, Callen took the chair in the corner that offered the most coverage and best view of the restaurant. The move was so natural, that if Ray hadn't been a student of human nature, he might have missed it; but he didn't and he tucked it away in the profile that was growing in his mind.

Shortly after they were seated, their waiter arrived. "Good to see you Ray. Your usual beer?"

"That would hit the spot," Ray replied, smiling up at the petite blond waitress.

The waitress, Claire declared her name tag, turned her attention to Callen. "And what can I get to drink for you, Sir?"

Callen's eyes did a quick survey of the place again, particularly the bar, noting the taps. He gave the waitress an easy smile. "Whatever domestic you have on tap, thanks." Ray noted how easily this man sitting across from him slipped in and out of personas and added it to his profile in his mind.

With a nod, Claire headed off to fulfill the drink orders. Meanwhile, Ray picked up the menu and began to peruse it. "Always look the damn thing over then order the same meal. If you're needing a recommendation, the house burger is tops. Stuffed with cheese, topped with bacon, slathered with some mayo concoction, it's definitely worthy to go on the bucket list."

Callen folded his menu and dropped it on the table. "Works for me."

Claire came back and took their orders, which were identical, except for the cooking temperature; Callen went rare and Ray, well-done.

After the waitress left, Ray remarked, "Navy kind of trained my taste buds to only accept well-done, or maybe I should say over-done." Ray paused to see if his dining companion would reciprocate with a tale on why he liked his meat rare, but the blond merely made a small nod to acknowledge Ray's statement then looked out the window.

Inwardly, Ray sighed, realizing this was going to be like pulling teeth. The indirect approach didn't work so he switched to direct. "Never asked your name. Might make things easier if I had a moniker to call you by."

Callen turned his attention back to Ray answering, "Tom Martin."

There was no hesitation when he said it, nothing to give any indication 'Tom Martin' was not his real name, but Ray was sure it was an alias. Ray was also sure Tom would respond to it as if it were the name his parents gave him. Didn't matter though, Ray wasn't looking for references on his new hire, so he simply took him at his word, reached out, and offered his hand. "Nice to meet you, Tom."

The handshake he received was firm, but not to the point of trying to prove anything. However, he did notice an interesting fact as he let go of Tom's hand, and a surreptitious glance confirmed his observation; this man sitting across from him was not stranger to firearms. There was a telltale callus on Tom's right hand, very small, but one that people who regularly shot weapons tended to develop.

"So where do you haul from Tom," Ray started conversationally leaving a long pause for Callen to fill in the blanks.

Callen gave a disinterested shrug. "Lots of places," and Ray sighed inwardly. This was like prying open a clam. He was going to have to break out the shovel, because he was going to have to dig. As he debated what to try next, Claire returned with their beers and a plate of calamari.

The food kept them both quiet for a while and the few questions Ray did venture forth with were easily rebuffed by his dining companion. Callen never refused to answer a question, but his answers never provided any information. Ray was torn between being frustrated and excited about the challenge to learn more about this mystery man.

After dinner, Ray handed the key to the cabin to Callen. "Figured you can sleep on the boat. I'm head back to my condo. Old man like me needs good back support when he sleeps." Ray figured he'd try one last shot of digging before calling it a night. "Guessing you have probably slept in some hard places."

Callen accepted the key while cocking an eyebrow at Ray. "What makes you think that?"

Ray played along with the deflection. "Cause of the fishing trawlers. They usually don't have deluxe accommodations. You did seem to indicate that is where you were heading."

"Yep," was Callen's only reply.

Whether it was 'yep' I have slept in hard places; 'yep' trawler's sleeping arrangements suck; 'yep' I said I was heading there, Ray had no idea. Even if he asked, he was sure Tom wouldn't elaborate, so Ray decided to call it a night. "Ok. I'll be out to the boat at nine. We'll get her ready for the charter day after tomorrow. Maybe tomorrow we'll take her out for a little spin, so you can familiarize yourself with her."

Callen who stood there, fiddling with the key in his right hand, nodded in acknowledgement.

"Night," Ray said as he turned and started to walk away.

"Night," Callen returned, then quietly added, "Thanks."

Ray waved a jaunty hand over his shoulder and a big grin graced his hidden face. The 'thanks' told him he made headway, if only minuscule, with this stranger.


	14. Chapter 14

_Author's Note: As you can see (or is that read) we are definitely in the third and final phase of this story. I hope you find Ray an interesting foil for Callen._

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><p>The next day the two men did maintenance and made minor repairs to the Ripple and her gear in preparation for the upcoming charter. The two men drew into an easy, if somewhat quiet companionship as they worked. Every now and then, Ray would try to engage Callen in conversation, in an attempt to draw the man out, and most times he was skillfully and politely rebutted. By unobtrusively watching Callen, well at least Ray thought he was being low-key about his spying, he had learned a few points about Callen.<p>

The man wasn't lying when he said he knew about boats, which was evident by the way he did his tasks and moved about the boat with ease. He also was sure his new first mate was recovering from some physical injuries. Ray had spotted a faint, nearly healed bruise on Callen's temple. He also spotted the man occasionally favoring his left leg and being a bit protective of his ribs. They were small tells and probably would have been missed by the average observer, but Ray was not average; this used to be his life and he was highly trained and skilled. Ray kept his discoveries to himself, knowing any direct question to Callen would only result in a meaningless denial or deflection; he just added them to his file in his mind.

Later in the day, as Ray was climbing to the Ripple's bridge, he happened to glance over at his fishing poles. He kept the rods and reels, fully rigged, stored, in the back corner of the aft deck. The poles leaned against the wall that lead to the flying bridge and were secured with two bright red bungees. Ray thought he noticed something odd, so he stopped, removed the top bungee and examined it closer. It was frayed and ready to snap which would not be good thing if the poles went tumbling down unexpectedly on a client. Prudence told him to go get a new bungee now and he was pretty sure there was some extras in his storage box up on the dock.

"Be back in a second," Ray called out to Callen who was meticulously swabbing the aft deck. Callen gave him a little nod of acknowledgement as he dipped the mop back into the sudsy bucket of water.

Ray gave a quick glance back at the poles, which were cockeyed and leaning over because of the missing cord, but he decided they would survive the few minutes it would take him to scrounge up a new bungee. Hopping up on to the dock, he headed over to where his storage box was located, flipped up the lid, and started rummaging.

Callen proceeded with his thorough cleaning of the deck, moving in a disciplined pattern which brought him over by the leaning poles. He hadn't thought much about them other than to slightly admire the quality of a few poles, and think they needed to be secured better, as he swabbed the deck around them. As Callen turned his back on the rods, an idiot came through the marina too fast in his boat, causing a large wake, which in-turn caused all the boats in their berths to rock. Ray glanced up as the careless Captain flew by and he made note of the boat and her name to report to the harbor patrol; there was a reason for the speed limits within a marina, just like speed limits on highways.

The Ripple rocked wildly in her berth and Callen's feet started to slide on the wet deck. The bucket holding the wash water sloshed its' slippery contents over the edge, turning the deck into a soapy skating rink, further hampering Callen's desperate attempts to stay on his feet. Callen felt his center of gravity shift and knew he was going down, so he released the mop to use his hands to break his fall. The mop slid with some force behind him into the bottom of the already leaning fishing poles, providing the catalyst to cause the lone bungee to release and spill the rods. Callen lost his battle with gravity and went sprawling on the deck and the poles with their myriad of sharp hooks, rained down on his back.

Ray's lures, like his rods and reels, where of good quality and well maintained. Their multiple sharp barbs easily tore thru Callen's thin, blue t-shirt, embedding themselves in his back. The agent grimaced as he felt the tiny torture devices dig into his flesh. As soon as he tried to scramble out from under the pile of poles, he realized it was a tactical error and immediately halted. The movement of the rods, when he tried to get out from under them, caused the hooks to tear more holes in tender skin. Carefully raising his right arm, he snaked it behind his back and tried to gently dislodge one of the poles. However, he wasn't successful, as the poles had woven themselves into a tangled mass. If he didn't want his back to look like raw hamburger, he'd need some assistance extracting himself.

From the dock, Ray saw the Ripple rock, Callen tumble and the poles fall, and it only took him a fraction of a second to figure out the end to that scenario. Quickly trotting down the planks, he yelled to Callen to lay still.

Stillness was not a favorite activity of Callen's. In stakeouts in the car with Sam, he rarely sat totally still; rubbing his thumb and forefinger, sucking on a tootsie-pop, some minor movement to quell his energy. However, in this particular circumstance, he was all too happy to remain absolutely motionless though he couldn't stop his mind from wondering if he were bleeding on the pristine deck he just finished cleaning. Sighing, he saw Ray board the boat out of the corner of his eye.

Ray winced at the number of hooks that had managed to embed themselves in his deckhand's flesh. After loosening and cutting the lines on the reels so he could take the poles off Callen and expose his hook-filled back, Ray reached into his pants pocket and withdrew a folding knife whose blade he flipped open.

"Gotta see what I'm doing," Ray informed Callen so as not to spook the man. Slipping the blade under the hem of Callen's now red and blue t-shirt, he carefully pulled the material upwards, away from Callen's flesh, as he sliced it with the knife. After some careful maneuvering and two slits down the sleeves, the shirt slithered to the deck exposing Callen's well-muscled back. It also revealed the blond's multitude of scars.

Ray involuntarily let a little gasp escape his lips. "You did a number on your back here, with the lures," he said trying to cover up his initial shock at Callen's scars, but neither man was fooled. However, wisely Ray didn't choose to pursue the topic and Callen did offer any explanations.

It took Ray a better part of an hour before he had carefully removed all the hooks. When he realized he was going to have to make a few slits in Callen's skins in order to extract the barbs, he went into the cabin and secured the medical kit.

With an apologetic wince, he showed the bottle of disinfectant to Callen. "I'm gonna have to douse those wounds as I work the hooks out, to avoid infection. Not gonna be pleasant I'm afraid."

Without thinking, Callen offhandedly replied, "I've felt worse." Immediately, he wished he could retract his statement because it left a wide opening for Ray to ask a question. If there was one thing Callen had already learned about Ray, was he liked to ask questions. In fact, Ray reminded him a bit of Nate.

Ray didn't disappoint. "Yeah," he said as he used a pair of needle-nose pliers to help him remove the barbs from Callen's skin. "I noticed you have some impressive scars going on back here." He worked in silence for a few minutes, as he struggled to get a particularly deeply embedded hook loose. "The bullet scars are particularly nasty. Based on the pattern, they're thru and thru. Got any more on your front that didn't go thru?"

Callen had decades of practice deflecting questions. When he was bored at the office, Callen occasionally enjoyed seeing how long he could avoid answering any questions posed to him by Nate. He once had Nate on the ropes, for the entire sixty minutes of a psychological review. During the exam, Callen side-stepped every question and he was sure if Nate was allowed to carry a gun, he would have shot Callen on the spot. As always, Hetty had found out, and he had received a stern lecture on how Nate was only doing his job, and these exams were for Callen's own good whether he believed it or not. But Hetty wasn't a stupid woman. She didn't attempt to wrangle a promise out of Callen to 'never do it again'; they both knew that wasn't going to happen. However, she did get her point across subtly by making his life hell, in minor little ways, every time he acted on his urge to hassle Nate. Callen quickly came to learn the amount of 'mandatory' paperwork that crossed his desk was directly related to the amount of time he irked Nate that day. While Callen would be the first to admit Hetty's methods didn't totally stop him from making Nate's job harder to do, it did rein Callen back to keeping his 'avoidance' sessions with Nate shorter. He would still engage Nate in deflection contests, but Callen made sure they lasted no more than 5 to 10 minutes at a shot and not more than two a day. It was a compromise all three usually were able to tolerate.

So Callen, in a moment of hook induced discomfort, had given Ray an opening to question him. Now, he had to swiftly close that door, so Callen pulled out his favorite tool, deflection. "You seem to know a lot about wounds. Were you a medic in the Navy?"

Ray allowed a smile to creep across his lips, since he knew the man lying face-down on the deck couldn't see it. In Callen, Ray sensed, he had a skilled opponent in the deception and deflection game. It had been a long time since anyone had tested his skills; this was going to be fun.

"Medic? Gosh, why would you think that?" Ray volleyed back his first question as he gently removed another barbed hook from Callen's back.

Now it was Callen's turn to smile, not that Ray could see. Game on. Callen went question for question. "Do you think it takes a special kind of person to go into medicine?"

"You know, I do," Ray stated, then winced. First point to Callen since Ray actually answered Callen's question instead of deflecting. "You know, I don't believe you ever got around to telling me what your trade is?"

"Didn't I?" the agent tossed back.

Ray had a ready comeback. "Did you mention it in the restaurant last night?"

"Weren't those burgers good?" Callen got bonus points for using a question while working in a logical deflection.

The game came to a halt as Ray maneuvered the last hook free, triumphantly holding it in the air. "Tada. Last one."

Callen started to rise but stopped when Ray put a gentle, but insistent hand on his back. "Whoa there sailor. I still need to disinfect these cuts."

"I'm sure they will be fine," Callen countered, never one to easily submit to medical care.

Ray started up the game again as a distraction technique. "Did you give your Doctors grief when you were shot three times?"

Ray poured the disinfectant in one of the deepest cuts causing Callen to flinch. "Five," he grunted. "And yes, I gave them a hard time, a really hard time."

'Interesting,' Ray thought. He got straight answers from this guy when he was in pain. Ray doused the rest to the cuts, screwed the lid on the bottle, stood up and offered a hand to help Callen to his feet.

Callen being Callen ignored the offer of assistance. Under his own steam, he slowly got to his knees, took a little rest break, and then used his arms to press to his feet. Ray found his eyes inexplicably drawn to Callen's bare torso. The man hadn't been kidding, as his chest did have five distinct bullet wound scars, not to mention all the other assorted marks. Callen stood tall, squared his shoulders, stared Ray in the eyes and practically dared him to ask.

Ray wasn't a stupid man and he knew asking wouldn't bring him the truth and would probably drive Callen away so instead he merely said, "If you need it, there are extra logo shirts in the drawer under the couch." Ray tapped on the shirt he was wearing that advertised his business on the upper right-side of the chest. "Give them to my customers." Ray kept his face neutral and watched the wariness in Callen's eyes fade a degree since Ray did not try to pry into his past. It wasn't replaced with trust, that would be asking way too much of this haunted man, but it was a positive step in the right direction.

"Appreciate the help," Callen replied with genuine gratitude. A second later, a slight smirk appeared on his lips as he picked up the game. "Learn to handle a knife like that medical school? Or do your clients routinely get themselves tangled in your tackle?"

Ray gave a little laugh at the audacity of this guy. "While I would love to stand here trading questions with you until the cows come home, even though I know the amount of useful information either one of us would get is nil, you, my friend, have a job to complete." Ray looked pointedly at the red speckled deck. "Having my decks splattered in blood is not the image I want to portray to my customers."

The tiny nod Callen gave acknowledged the fact he'd been put on notice that Ray knew they were playing a game for info. "Ok, Doc," he saucily replied as headed into the cabin to retrieve a shirt.

Ray shook his head again and muttered, "This is gonna be an interesting ride."


	15. Chapter 15

_Author's Note: Remember, the alias Callen gave Ray was Tom Martin. I alternate between using 'Tom' and 'Callen' depending on who is talking/thinking. I freely admit this gets confusing, even to me. _

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><p>It had been two weeks since this Ray had found this stranger sitting on the plastic bench in the marina. During that interval, they had spent a lot of time together running charters, performing maintenance on the boat, fishing for pleasure and sharing meals. Yet, for all the time they had spent together, Ray realized he still didn't know much more about Tom now than he did two weeks ago.<p>

To be fair, Ray had gleaned a few things thru observation, but had learned very little because Tom directly told him. The guy was guarded at all times, even in his sleep.

That was one thing Ray had figured out early on; Tom was an insomniac. Ray also learned Tom had a flair for languages, when Tom slipped on the dock one day and his posterior region landed rather ungracefully on a mooring post bringing forth a string of curses in what Ray thought was at least four distinct languages. He had also caught Callen chatting in Russian with one of their charter clients and another time in fluent Spanish. The man flowed in and out of the languages like someone that had a natural gift, combined with a lot of experience.

Another thing he had learned by observing; Tom was always immensely aware of his surroundings. He habitually positioned himself so he had multiple escape routes or where his back was protected. More interesting to Ray was the way Tom did these things which was totally unconsciously. This told Ray these habits were so ingrained they were now a natural part of the man. Ray's suspicions about Tom's line of work were slowly getting confirmed in his mind; the only question was which side of the law was he on, good or bad?

It was a beautiful day on the water, with a cloudless blue sky above a deep blue sea. The swells were gentle and the Ripple barely rocked as Ray and Callen sat on the aft deck, in the fishing chairs, idly watching their lines. The two men weren't seriously fishing; the lines were more for show as the two men enjoyed lounging in the sun and slowly sipping cool beers.

"Hell of a life you have here Ray," Callen said as he lazily scanned the horizon.

"Not too shabby for an old sea dog," Ray readily agreed. As he raised his bottle to his lips to take a sip, Ray noted Callen sat up a little taller in his chair. "You have been watching something on the horizon for the last fifteen minutes. Wanna share?" Ray casually asked.

Callen was a little startled to hear Ray use the same expression Sam used, when he wanted info from Callen. In the last few weeks, Callen's thoughts had been wandering often to the team he left behind, triggered by the easy companionship he had been enjoying with Ray. On some level, it reminded him of that same companionship he had with his team in LA. Pushing his memories aside, he responded, "Seems that yacht hasn't changed position for quite a while." Ray followed Callen's gaze and saw a vessel that did appear stationary. "Big ocean for neighbors," Callen mumbled speculatively.

For the next fifteen minutes, the two men watched the ship on the horizon as they fished. Finally, Ray holstered his pole and headed into the cabin, emerging shortly with a pair of binoculars. Standing at the rail, he studied the other vessel, as Callen silently waited.

After a bit, Ray said, "She appears dead in the water. I don't see any rods or an anchor line. Maybe we need to mosey over there and see if something is wrong."

Callen got an eerie feeling on the back of his neck and he squinted at the horizon as if that would help relieve it. "Is she flying a distress flag?"

"Nope. But most people don't think to do that, even if they have one. If she is in trouble, she may have radioed for assistance, but still, if her electronics are down..." Ray let the sentence die out.

Callen started reeling in his line and when the lure came onboard; he secured it on the ring on the rod and waited as Ray did the same. Then he took both poles and headed over to the corner to stow them.

"Want me to vent?" Callen inquired with a nod to the hatches on the aft deck.

"Yep, and stick these back in the drawer please," Ray said handing the binoculars to Callen before he headed to the bridge, scooting around the two, 3 x 3 holes in either side of the deck, left by Callen removing the hatch covers to vent any gas from the hull.

After removing the covers, Callen headed into the cabin to put away the binoculars. By the time he got them stored, the Ripple's engines roared to life before settling into a steady purr. He went back on deck and dropped the hatch covers back in place.

Ray turned the Ripple about and headed towards the other vessel. Over the next several minutes, Callen thought he heard an odd, intermittent, thumping noise. It took him a while to isolate it, but finally he decided it was coming from the port side, up near the bow of the boat. Callen stepped over the rail, onto the narrow deck that ran along the outside of the cabin and headed towards the bow. He was about three quarters of the way along the cabin, when he heard the noise again, like something was banging on the side of the hull. Before attempting to see what was making the noise, Callen carefully squatted a little on the narrow deck and peered thru the cabin windows; he wasn't tall enough to see over the fly bridge were Ray was steering. The engines on the Ripple shifted into neutral and Callen was surprised to see from his position, crouched behind the cabin that they were nearly alongside the other ship.

Suddenly, shots rang out and instinctively, Callen flattened his body to the narrow deck while attempting not to get pitched into the sea by the swaying of the Ripple. He heard a thud on the flying bridge and got a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach that Ray had been hit and was down. Staying concealed as much as possible, Callen waited to see if there were going to be any more shots fired. As the minutes slowly passed with no more gunfire, Callen interpreted that to mean they hadn't spotted him, whoever they were.

Callen heard murmuring voices but could not make out what the voices were saying. Taking a calculated risk, he cautiously rose on his hands and knees then peered thru the cabin window. It was hard to see since he was looking thru the window next to him, across the width of the boat and out the other window on the starboard side. However, he could make out that the Ripple had drifted fairly close to the other yacht and Callen thought it looked like they were going to be boarded soon.

Taking a chance, Callen got to his feet, hoisted himself by his arms onto the fly bridge, quickly slithered on the seat and then to the floor where he couldn't be seen. Collapsed on the far side of the bridge was Ray and there was blood blossoming across his left side. He must have heard the light thump as Callen climbed onto the bridge because he opened his eyes.

"How bad?" Callen hissed from his concealment on the floor.

Ray lifted his shirt and saw it was merely a graze. "I'll live," Ray said with a grimace, "well assuming they don't shoot me again."

A shudder ran through the Ripple, as the other yacht bumped against her hull. "Get out of here Tom. If they find you..." Ray let the sentence dangle.

Callen didn't like leaving Ray behind, but he knew he had a better chance of saving them both if he remained free. With tight smile and a curt nod, Callen went back over the edge of the bridge on the port side and dropped onto the deck again. He heard that crazy thump again, the one that had probably saved him from being shot earlier and suddenly it dawned on him what was making the noise. The mooring bumper was still hanging over the side of the boat, banging into the hull from the motion of the waves.

It was perfect. Callen could use the bumper to quietly lower himself into the ocean and try to get on the other yacht undetected. Quickly spying where the bumper was tied to the rail, he crept in that direction. Grabbing the rope, he swung his legs over the edge of the deck and stealthily lowered his body towards the water. While hanging onto the bumper, he kicked off his boots so they wouldn't weigh him down, though he did it with some regrets, as he really liked his boots. However, he liked living even more.

When his feet were free, he dropped into the ocean, letting go of the bumper. The cold water surged over his head as he sunk beneath the surface. Rapidly forcing his body back to the surface, he looked for the Ripple's hull, spotting it an arm's length to his right. Without making any splashing noises, he started swimming towards the bow of the Ripple. When he got there, he placed a hand against the hull and peered around the other side to get a lay of the land.

He felt the other yacht bumping against the side of the Ripple and he winced as he thought about the damage the boats rubbing on each other was doing to the Ripple's hull. Unconsciously, he gave the old girl a little pat, in way of an apology.

There was a short, olive-skinned man lashing the two boats together and Callen shrank back against the hull to keep out of the man's line-of-sight. When the two boats were secured, a second man boarded the Ripple and headed up to the bridge, gun in hand, presuming to check on the condition of Ray. Callen unconsciously held his breath waiting for another gunshot that would signal the end of another person's life he had come to know, but the air remained quiet. When he did hear sounds, it was Ray's voice complaining for someone to take it easy, that he was moving as fast as he could, given his wounded state. Callen gathered they were moving Ray, but from his position he couldn't tell where they were headed.

Callen decided he needed to move to a better vantage point, so swimming quickly and silently, he edged around the bow of the other yacht, and down her outside hull towards the transom. He kept as close to the sleek fiberglass hull as possible, because he knew the way the hull bulged, the only way they could possibly see him was to literally hang their heads over the side. He doubted that would happen, unless someone heard him or someone got sea-sick; he prayed they all had good sea-stomachs.

When he got to the transom undetected, he was happy to see there was a narrow platform, often used by divers. The small ledge was low enough to the water, that Callen could haul his body onto it, though he did scrape the recently healed cut on his thigh and had to stifle his curses. As he was catching his breath on the ledge, the boat rocke. He cautiously got into a crouch, and then slowly raised his body past the name of the boat, Seaview, which was painted on the transom, to spy on what was transpiring. He saw three men climb off the Seaview and onto the Ripple. To Callen's count, that made four bad guys he had to worry about.

Callen risked poking his head up a bit further, gambling that all the baddies were on the Ripple and engaged. He could see from his higher vantage point, that Ray had been strapped into the fishing chair on the Ripple. At least he was still alive, but Callen bet it was pretty uncomfortable to be tied to that chair given Ray's injuries.

Seeing no movement on the back deck of the Seaview, Callen hauled himself off the platform, over the rail and onto the Seaview's aft deck. He stayed motionless for a few seconds to see if anyone detected his movement; it remained quiet. Commando crawling, he inched across the yacht's deck towards the short stairs that lead into the cabin. Once there, he crept below, out of sight.

The Seaview was definitely a luxury yacht, in every sense of the word. The floor Callen was currently crawling across was a cream colored, deep pile, which would have been very luxurious if not for the red spots marring its' surface. Callen had a sinking feeling he knew what the stains were and how they got on the rug.

When he was sure he could not be seen, Callen rose to his feet to better exam his surroundings. He was standing in a tastefully appointed salon; what would have been called a living room had this been a house, and not a boat. On the far side of the space was a dining set and laying on the floor next it were the source of the red stains.

Callen walked over, bent down, and checked for a pulse even though he knew he wasn't going to find one. The bodies lying dead on the rug were that of a fit, middle-aged man wearing casual, designer shorts and shirt and an equal fit woman, also well coutured. Looking back towards the stairs that lead to the aft deck, Callen decided the man must have been on deck when he was originally shot and for some reason, had tried to make it back to here, hence the red smears on the otherwise pristine carpet. The woman appeared to have been shot while sitting at the table.

Sitting back on his haunches for a moment, Callen wondered why the dead man had tried so hard to get back to this area. The stains on the carpet indicated he was literally dragging his body over the floor trying to achieve his goal. Sweeping the space with his eyes, Callen spotted a chest with drawers, directly in the path of where the man appeared to have been crawling. Rising, Callen moved closer and began to yank each drawer open so he could rifle thru its' content. In the back of the bottom drawer, he found a locked metal box which he removed and placed on the table to examine. Though it normally took a key to open, Callen knew he could spring the lock if he could find a piece of metal. Checking his rear pocket, Callen found his ever-trusty bobby pin was missing. Moving towards where he figured the bedrooms on the yacht were located, he opened doors until he found the head, though on a classy boat like this, it was truly a bathroom. It only took a minute of searching in the drawers to find a bobby pin, though it was coated with pink plastic which he had to scrape off with his fingernail before he could use it to pick the lock.

After springing the box's lock, he tucked the bobby pin in the back left pocket of his jeans. Carefully, he pried the lid open and peered inside. A small smile flit across his lips when he saw the contents; a gun. Taking the 38 special in his hands, he gave it the once over, being sure to first check the chamber for a round. Satisfied, he stuck it in the waistband, in the back of his wet jeans. It was good to have the familiar weight in the small of his back. Callen examined the box again for extra rounds, then the drawers, but he came up empty; he had to make do with what was in the gun.

A thud on the rear deck alerted him to the fact he was no longer alone on the Seaview. Ducking and making sure he was out of sight, he listened to the footfalls to determine what they were doing. They didn't come near the cabin but rather headed up to the bow, if he was judging correctly. Callen heard the slap of something against the deck, like a rope perhaps, then the return of the footsteps to the aft deck. The Seaview rocked a little and Callen realized that it was caused by the weight of the person transferring back to the Ripple; he was alone again on the yacht, except for the deceased.

Deciding he needed to get back on deck to ascertain what was going on, Callen started back towards the stairs that lead upwards. As he moved across the cabin, he realized it was getting brighter thru the port side windows and he had the distinct feeling of movement. It took him a minute to put it all together, then he realized what was happening; the Seaview was moving away from the Ripple. Had the Seaview been cut loose?

Breaking into a fast pace, he was bounding up the stairs when the Seaview jerked sending him sprawling face first into staircase. Of course he missed the carpeted portion of the stairs and the left side of his rib cage came down hard on the tread. 'That's gonna leave a mark,' he thought as he scrambled back to his feet.

A smaller, secondary motion jerked the yacht again, and Callen, who was on the deck, stumbled sideways a bit but didn't go down this time. Keeping low, he moved over to the rail. He was sure the Seaview was moving, but not using her own engines.

Spying the ladder that lead to the Seaview's bridge, Callen cautiously ascended and headed towards the front of the space. Raising his head slowly, he peered over the top and across the bow, finally getting his answer. The Ripple was approximately twenty-five feet in front of the Seaview and was towing her via a rope attached to the stern of Ray's vessel and the bow of this one.

Callen still wasn't sure what was going on, but while part of his brain pondered that conundrum, another part urged him to look around the fly bridge for a communications device. A quick glance at the marine radio showed it had met its match with the bullet embedded in the chassis. It would never squawk again. Nope hope of calling for backup.

Returning back to the aft deck, he gave the engines a quick look and immediately discovered why the Seaview was under tow; she had a broken belt and without a spare, she wasn't going anywhere under her steam. Callen assumed the owner didn't have the broken part or didn't possess the skill set to fix it.

Finally, Callen came to the conclusion the only way out of this situation was for him to get onboard the Ripple and overpower the four bad guys. It would not be simple, but his mind was already off and running, examining the possibilities. He took stock of what he had to include the gun which would be helpful closer, but at this range offered no advantage.

Somehow he had to get closer to the Ripple. He was pretty sure the baddies wouldn't let him stand on the bow of the Seaview and pull on the towline until he could hop onboard the Ripple. That maneuver would result in a bullet in his brain, as soon as he got in range of their weapons, sooner if they had a long-distance rifle.

Scouting the closed cabinets around the boat, he opened each one hoping to find something useful. In the second to last one, he finally did; a pneumatic fishing spear. Hefting it out of the box, he checked to see how much line it had on it; about fifty feet he'd guess. While it was not a very thick line, it was nylon, which meant it was strong. A plan formulated in Callen's mind as he carried his new prize back on the deck and laid it down.

Cautiously, Callen crept up to the Seaview's bridge again and flattened himself out as he peered at the Ripple in front of him. The distance between the two boats was about twenty-five feet in Callen's guesstimate. As he watched the water churning behind the Ripple, he calculated his odds of success. Even though he was an excellent marksman, this would be an extremely difficult shot. His goal was to foul the Ripple's propeller with the rope attached to the spear. That, at least temporarily, would halt the Ripple and allow Callen a chance to board furtively board. In order to have his best chance at correctly placing his shot, he really needed to be on the bow of the Seaview, which would leave him exposed. However, he saw no other choice.

Climbing back down, and lightly dropping back onto the aft deck, he went over to the spear gun and gave it a thorough going-over until it he satisfied. Grabbing the unit in his right hand, he used his left to haul himself over the rail onto the side-deck, and then slowly crept towards the bow. Halfway up the narrow walkway, Callen stopped, crouched and studied the scene ahead. On the aft deck of the Ripple, Ray was still tied to the fishing chair facing the rear of the boat. As for the bad guys, one was on the bridge steering the boat, two were on the aft deck, but facing away from Callen and he couldn't find the fourth man; maybe he was in the cabin.

This was as good as it was going to get Callen told himself, so he continued his way to the bow of the Seaview. Once clear of the cabin, he flattened his body on the deck again like a squirrel and inched forward towards the bow. Deliberately, rising up onto his elbows, Callen took aim with the gun, held his breath and started to gently squeeze the trigger. However, before he completed the action, he stopped. While it was safer for him to take this shot prone on the deck, he would have a higher success rate if he stood to get a better angle. With determination, Callen climbed to his feet, adjusted his stance, raised the spear gun and pulled the trigger.


	16. Chapter 16

_Author's Note: Ok, I took a little pity on ya'll here and didn't break this into two chapters as logical would dictate. When you get to the NCIS LA break, think how frustrating it would have been if I had only posted to that point and made you wait another whole day for the next chapter. Your welcome. Lol Oh yes, and remember Tom = Callen._

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><p>Ray sat in the fishing chair staring at the Seaview, as the Ripple towed her towards some unknown destination. The bullet graze on his side was throbbing. He sat, tied to the chair, wondering what had become of his mate, Tom. Ray was pretty sure Tom was no longer on the Ripple, which meant there were only two other places he could be, on the Seaview, which seemed highly unlikely, or in the ocean, which was ominous. His gut did a slow roll, as his mind thought about Tom's low probability of still being alive.<p>

Ray forced his thoughts in a new direction, trying to recall what had occurred over the past few hours. He remembered operating the Ripple from the bridge, approaching what he thought was a good-sized luxury vessel in distress; then there was a bang, a fierce pain shot thru left side and he'd crumbled to the deck. He thought Tom had paid him a short visit, but he wasn't sure because he had hit his head when he fell and that made things fuzzy. Next thing he thought he remembered was a medium height, olive-skinned man had been standing over him with a gun, issuing commands in heavily accented English. His muddled brain had not been able to identify the man's underlying nationality. The gunman had been yelling something at him and making gestures with the gun. Ray had been pretty sure the guy with the gun wanted him to rise, so he had clutched the seat for support, maneuvered his body off the floor and had kept his arm pinned over the wound on his side.

"Down. Down," the man had shouted, motioning towards the ladder that led off the bridge, to the aft deck of the Ripple. Ray had nodded his head to show he understood what was being asked of him, and then tried to get his body to comply. With a groan, he had pushed off the chair only to crumble to the deck.

The man with the gun had not been not sympathetic to Ray's blight and gestured with the gun again yelling, "Down! Down!" The man had kicked Ray in the leg to get him to comply. Slowly and painfully, Ray had crept across the bridge on his hands and knees to the ladder. His decent had been anything but graceful and he half-climbed, half-tumbled to the deck below. Once there, the two men on that deck had grabbed him by the arms, shoved him in the fishing chair and tied him in place with his own mooring line.

This brought Ray back to the present, where he still was secured in the chair having had no idea how long he'd been sitting here. He knew he passed out a few times, but he didn't think for very long. Though he wasn't hundred percent sure, he thought he had stopped bleeding, which he took as an encouraging sign.

Scanning the Seaview again out of boredom, Ray thought he detected moment on the bow. Without thinking, Ray blurted out, "Tom!", then immediately bit his lip, cursing, because he just inadvertently alerted his captors. When they followed Ray's line of sight, spotting Callen on the bow of the boat they were towing, they excitedly yelled into the cabin. The fourth man swiftly appeared, carrying a rifle, which he immediately brought to bear on Callen. Ray heard the gun go off and his stomach sank when he saw Tom tumble over the Seaview's rail into the ocean. Dropping his chin to his chest, grief overwhelmed him as he realized he mostly likely had just gotten Tom killed.

An eerie silence descended upon the Ripple as her engines suddenly quit. The silence was quickly replaced with the yelling of the gunmen as the Ripple's forward motion slowed. They jabbered at each other, clueless to why the boat's engines had stopped. They were now drifting aimlessly on the vast ocean.

NCIS-LA NCIS-LA

It was very unpleasant hitting the water back first, a fact his partially healed injuries let be clearly known. He closed his eyes as the sea-water rapidly closed over his head as he plummeted swiftly downwards. It took a moment for him to gather his wits enough to stop his decent towards the ocean floor and slowly make his way back to the surface. The second his head emerged, he scanned his surroundings and was relieved to see he was shielded from the eyes of the people on the Ripple by the Seaview's hull. Treading water, he regrouped his thoughts. Though he knew the bullet had not actually hit him, it had been close enough that he swore he had felt it swoosh by his ear. He hoped his subterfuge, of throwing himself overboard as if he had been hit, was convincing enough that the gunmen would drop their guard figuring he was dead.

Quietly, he began to swim around the Seaview, heading towards the bow of the Ripple. He kept his head out of the water allowing him to ensure he was not swimming into an area where he could be seen. He had the element of surprise on his side and he wanted to maintain it.

The Ripple and Seaview were thirty feet apart which meant he had to traverse that stretch unseen by the occupants of the Ripple. Taking a deep breath, he drove a few feet down then swam underwater across the ocean. When he judged he had traveled far enough, he cautiously rose to the surface, sticking his head out of the water, to mark his position. His timing was impeccable, as the Ripple's bow was only an arm's length to his right; he had made it with no one to the wiser. Callen quickly moved alongside of the boat's hull which hid him from anyone onboard, unless they hung their head directly over the side and event he considered highly unlikely considering they were all focused on the stern of the boat and the engine mishap he had caused with the fishing spear and the rope.

Inching around the Ripple's bow, he let a little smile escape when he saw that the off-white mooring bumper was still dangling over the side; his gateway up the side of the hull. Timing his ascent to match the up and down swells of the ocean, he lunged for the bumper on the peak of the wave and hung on for dear life. His shoulders and ribs screamed in protest, but he ignored them, gritting his teeth and hauling his body upwards, over the side and onto the Ripple's deck where he once again flattened his body out like a pancake. If anyone was in the main cabin and looked out the windows of the Ripple, he was toast. However, fortune was smiling on him and he didn't see anyone, as he crawled along the slightly hot, royal blue deck, towards the peak of the bow.

Callen racked his brain to remember if the hatch on the bow, that lead to the sleeping compartment below, had been left unlatched. If so, he could sneak into the cabin, maintaining the element of surprise. Lifting on the handle, Callen let out a sigh of relief when he felt it move. One last glance over his shoulder into the cabin, confirmed he was still undetected. He raised the hatch enough so he could slither into the compartment, and then silently pulled the lid closed behind him.

The door between the forward sleeping area and the rest of the cabin was closed, which meant no one could see him. Callen crept across the yellow cushioned bunks and dropped lightly onto the triangle-shaped floor of the cramped space. The Ripple was not a luxury yacht and this cabin was designed for functionality, not comfort. It had two bunks that formed a 'V', so if there were two sleepers, depending on their height, they would play footsie all night. The area had a door that lead to the main cabin, and the door had a small hatch op top, that folded back like an accordion, which allowed light and air into the berth area. This allowed for privacy, because the door to the main cabin could stay closed, but gave the occupants of the forward cabin air circulation and light. Callen used this feature to his advantage to peer out into the main area without opening the door and potentially giving away his position.

His concerned blue eyes scanned the Ripple's main cabin trying to locate the gunmen. The door that led from the cabin to the aft deck was open, and thru its narrow field of vision he could see two of the gunmen hanging over the stern rail. His assumption was they were watching a third man in the water, trying to untangle the rope that had securely wrapped itself around the props thanks to, him and the spear gun. That left one man unaccounted for who, could either be on the bridge or in the head; the only two places Callen couldn't see from his current position. Reaching out a hand, Callen noiselessly turned the handle and cautiously opened the door. When he was satisfied he had attracted no attention, he crept onto the thin blue-green carpet of the main cabin, heading towards the bathroom. Detecting the sound of running water, he was confident he now knew where the fourth person was located.

Callen knew, from working on the Ripple, that the cabin floor was a little warped and the bathroom door had a habit of getting stuck in the fully open position, something he could use to his advantage, with a little luck. The bathroom door was thrust open by the gunman, got stuck and Callen made his move, jumping on the emergent and dragging him into a choke hold. To Callen's advantage, the bathroom door remained ajar, blocking the view of anyone on the aft deck into the cabin. However, his advantage was short lived as the man started flailing, resisting Callen's attempt to render him unconscious. Just as the gunman was about to succumb to the darkness that was Callen's hands around his throat, the man gave one final kick which caused his left foot to hit the bathroom door, unsticking it, allowing it to close, and exposing Callen to the men on the back deck who were alerted by the sounds of the struggle.

Callen immediately realized the new danger, but if he immediately let go of the man he was choking , the man would still be conscious and a threat. Instead, he hung on for the last few seconds he needed, using the man as a human shield, and praying the caliber of the bullets from the pistols being aimed at him, from the men on the aft deck, was low enough not to penetrate his human shield.

The men on the aft deck apparently had no loyalty to their buddy because they started shooting at Callen, even though Callen knew they didn't have a clean shot. Callen felt the man he was holding in front of him shudder as two bullets hit his torso, but by then, the bad guy was fully unconscious. Callen released his captive and flung himself on the couch, to his left, which temporarily shielded him from the outside because of the bathroom walls. He reached for the gun he had tucked into his jeans and found it was missing; it must have fallen into the ocean when he was swimming. Cursing, he stood on the yellow couch, shielded by the bathroom, furiously thinking, knowing it wouldn't be long before the men on the deck entered the cabin and killed him. As he stood there, he felt blood running down his leg and a quick glanced confirmed the older wound in his thigh had been reopened. He didn't have time for the pain, so he shoved it to the rear of his brain, as he thought out his next move.

A quick scan of his area had his eyes landing on a drawer next to the couch, the one that contained a knife for filleting fish if Callen's memory was correct. Yanking open the drawer, he pulled out the knife and a quick test of the blade with the pad of his left thumb showed it was razor sharp, exactly what Callen expected given Ray's habits of keeping his equipment in tip-top shape. He tested the heft of the knife with his right hand, while sucking the small drop of blood off his left thumb; it would do.

Quickly reviewing his options now that he was in possession of a weapon, Callen settled on a plan. He stuck his head around the corner in a swift motion, spotted the position of the two gunmen still on the aft deck, and then rapidly withdrew his head as two more bullets whizzed by him. Taking a deep, steadying breath, he jumped out into the aisle-way, flung the knife at one of the men, and then dove for the deck, his leg screaming in agony when it connected with the hard surface.

He rolled, and then scrambled under the table to his right which offered a degree of shelter. A wave of dizziness washed over his body, as he realized that blood was running down the side of his face. A tentative hand to the left side of his head confirmed he'd been grazed by one of the bullets. Callen bit down hard on his lower lip to regather his focus; this mission was far from over and he had to stay alert.

A cry and thump told him he had been successful with his throw and he verified this by quickly poking his head out for a peek. One of the men who had been shooting at him was flat on the deck with the fishing knife firmly embedded in his chest. The gunman had dropped his weapon, which had slid across the deck, coming to rest against the bulkhead. Taking advantage of the confusion he had caused, Callen sprinted from the cabin and tackled the second gunman before he could get off a shot. The two men crashed into the rail as they struggled for control of the gun.

Ray, tied to the chair, could do nothing but helplessly watch as his deck mate wrestled with a man who outweighed him by at least fifty pounds of pure muscle. The two men were so intertwined, that when a shot rang out, Ray couldn't tell who had been victorious, until the gunman slumped to the deck leaving Tom standing alone, albeit precariously.

Callen had his back to the stern of the boat when he heard an urgent cry of "Tom!" from Ray. Suddenly realizing his mistake, Callen tried to dive out of the way, but was unsuccessful as the knife, welded by the fourth gunman, who had been in the ocean cutting the rope off the propeller, sunk into the side of his chest.

Because of his training, the thrust didn't immediately disable him and he managed to turn and place two bullets in the knife wielder's heart. As the man crumbled to the deck, Callen stumbled to the rail using it to keep himself upright, while he tried to remain conscious. Looking down, he saw the blood spreading across his shirt at an alarming rate and that, mixed with the wound on his head, leg and everything else that had mentally and physically assaulted him in the last few hours, came to a breaking point. A fog started to descend over his brain and he felt himself sinking towards oblivion. Only the frantic cries from Ray kept him from being swept away into the black tidal pool.

"Tom! Tom! You have to untie me!"

Moving sluggishly, Callen pushed off the rail and fumbled across the Ripple's deck to where Ray was tied to the fishing chair. His muddled brain stared at the knots, trying to decipher how to undo them.

Ray was frightened by the blood running down Tom's face, not to mention the bloody shirt. He could see Tom was struggling, not fully processing the world around him, so he gently provided guidance. "The knife Tom. Use the knife to cut the ropes."

Numbly, Callen did as he was told, sawing thru the lines and freeing Ray before he collapsed in a heap against the bulkhead.

From having been tied in the chair for an extended period of time, Ray was incredibly stiff and it took a few moments for him to be able to rise out of the chair. Carefully, he made his way over to where Tom was laying against the side of the boat. He tried to bend over to examine Tom to see how serious the wounds were, but he was instantly verbally rebuffed.

"Go into the cabin. Secure the guy before he wakes up," Tom grunted out. "Now!"

Surprised by the force of the command, Ray instantly complied. Grabbing some rope from a nearby locker, he slowly made his way into the cabin and tied up the remaining, live gunman.

Next, Ray moved over to the pilot's station, dragged his drained flesh up on the seat and grabbed the mike from the Ripple's radio to make a distress call to the Coast Guard. Tuning to the proper frequency, he put out a may-day call and soon he was describing what had transpired to the party on the other end. Informing them of their injuries and relaying the urgency of their situation, he was assured help was swiftly on-route.

After signing off, Ray leaned sideways, resting his weary head on the window next to the radio for a moment. Exhaustion was rapidly overtaking him. He must have lost more blood then he realized from his wound. Pulling from his reserves, he pushed himself off the chair and stumbled back onto the deck to check on Tom who had not moved in the interim. Ray could hear Tom's breathing was swallow, and the red stain on is shirt was glistening wet. Remembering how skittery this guy was, Ray decided to announce everything he was going to do, hoping not to alarm Tom. "Hey Tom. I'm gonna lift your shirt to examine your wound."

Tom's eyes remained shut as Ray tentatively reached out his hands and lifted the edge of the once blue t-shirt. Exposing the wound, Ray saw it was a nasty, deep cut, approximately four inches long and freely oozing bright red blood. Ray judged the position of the wound against Tom's physique and was worried it might have nicked the lung which would account for Tom's ragged breathing.

Letting the shirt drop down, he focused his attention on the head wound. The bullet had left a furrow in the left side of the temple. There was too much blood for Ray to be able to judge the depth of the wound. Ray addressed Tom again. "Hang tight. I'm going to go get the medical kit."

With a little groan, that he was unable to suppress, Ray heavily climbed to his feet, staggered into the cabin, hauled out the medical kit and dragged it out onto the deck next to the downed man. Flipping open the lid, he rifled thru the contents searching for a pressure bandage.

After finding one, he addressed Tom. "Ok. I'm gonna put this pressure bandage over the wound in your side." After lifting the shirt again to expose the wound, Ray ripped open the packaging from the sterile bandage. As he was about to apply it, Tom's cerulean blue eyes opened and he captured Ray's wrist in his hand.

Ray swiftly withdrew his hand; even wounded, this man had a strong grip. "Tom, it's bleeding pretty bad," he rationalized. "You've got to let me take care of it."

Callen struggled into a position where he could see the wound for himself. After staring at it for a second, he shut his eyes and gave a quick nod. Ray took that as a sign of acquiescence, moving forward with the bandage again. Though Ray knew it had to hurt, Tom laid absolutely still while Ray firmly applied the dressing.

"Do you want me to help you move to the couch?" Ray asked sitting back on his heels.

"No. I'm good," came the weak, yet firm reply.

Ray could hear the pain in Tom's voice, but he simply had to chuckle.

"Yea, right as rain. You're a stubborn man Tom."

Callen opened his eyes and a small smirk appeared in the corner of his mouth. "My partner says the same thing." Then his eyes drifted shut as he passed out.

Ray was hesitant to mess with the head wound; he thought it was better to leave that to the professionals. Since there was nothing more Ray could do at the moment, he rose, limped over to, then slumped into the fishing chair and waited for the arrival of the Coast Guard.


	17. Chapter 17

_Author's Note: You can thank Skippy for a slightly longer charter than originally planned, though I am sure you will still find it too brief; think of it as an interlude and segue into the final portion of the story. Skippy sent an interesting idea in a recent review and since I had a few moments today, I revised this chapter and incorporated the idea. Since it was written a bit of hastily, and not vetted as much as usual, please forgive the mistakes. But Skippy was right, we did need to check in on the rest of the team. This is a brief glance._

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><p>Ray heard the drone of the Coast Guard cutter's engines, and he forced himself out of his daze. Gingerly standing, he watched as the other boat approached and he wasn't surprised to see the men in uniform had their weapons drawn while they assessed the situation. Ray made sure he kept his hands visible and remained passive as they boarded and inspected first his boat then the Seaview.<p>

When they deemed it safe, they brought the medic onboard, who immediately went to Tom and crouched alongside him. Ray stood to the side out, of the way, while they examined the man, in a few short days; he had come to think of as his friend. It didn't take long for the medic to tell his fellow men to call in the chopper to airlift Tom to the hospital. Ray felt nauseous in the pit of his stomach at the grave look on the medics face as he examined Tom.

Suddenly, an unexpected pain shot down his right arm and unconsciously, he massaged it with his left hand. A cold, clammy feeling came over his body and he found it hard to draw a breath. He grew scared, as a crushing pain spread thru his chest; he was having a heart attack! His knees turned to jelly and he crumbled to the deck. Instantly, the medic moved to Ray's side, assessing this new crisis. A shout brought oxygen, which was firmly strapped to Ray's face. The last thing Ray heard before he dropped into unconsciousness was the medic asking for the ETA on the chopper and telling it to hurry before he had two corpses on his hands.

The chopper arrived and the two unconscious men were airlifted abroad. Swiftly, the bird departs, heading for the nearest hospital. The rest of the Coast Guard crew secured the two boats and made them ready for transport.

NCIS LA NCIS LA

Deeks quietly tip-toed into the bullpen after lunch, not nearly his usual charismatic self. He skirted around Sam's desk as much as possible without looking, at least he hoped, like he was obviously avoiding the man. For the last few weeks, Sam had been unbearable to be around, not that Deeks really blamed him. In fact, Deeks could easily sympathize with Sam; he knew how off-kilter he had felt when Kensi was in Afghanistan and out of contact. At least Deeks had known where Kensi had been sent, but not the why or when she was returning. Sam suspected he knew why Callen had run, but not to where nor when he would return and it was driving the usually placid SEAL to distraction.

Sam had spent every waking hour, since Callen had disappeared the night of the storm, trying to track down his off-the-reservation partner. Deeks knew Sam felt especially guilty for the inadvertent role he and Michelle had played in this tragedy that had sent Callen spiraling into oblivion. Even though, according to Hetty, Callen's feelings of betrayal were focused himself for trusting Joelle, not Sam, the big-guy still felt guilt-ridden. He and Michelle had practically shanghaied Callen into that first date with Joelle and had kept subtly interfering until the two seemed to click. Had they left things alone, Callen would have not gone out with Joelle and none of this would have occurred. Yes, Joelle probably still would have found a way to attack Michelle but it may not have been thru Callen. Callen had enough baggage of his own from his less than stellar childhood, and Sam felt bad that he and Michelle had added to Callen's already damaged soul.

For all his trying, three weeks had gone by and Sam still had no idea where his partner was located or even if he were still alive; not that Sam would admit to that last fact. A man like Callen had a lot of enemies who wouldn't hesitate to strike if they found their target vulnerable, which Sam secretly feared. However, Sam was insistence, to anyone that even dared hint something could have befallen Callen, that the man was alive and well. Sam said he would know in his bones if something horrific had happened to his partner.

Even all the attempts by the wonder twins to track down the missing team lead had come up nil which made the usually perky dynamic duo, down-right grouchy. Neither Nell or Eric liked to be bested, but then again, they were up against one of the best adversary in the world; if Callen didn't want to be found, he knew exactly how to disappear off the face of the earth. On a more personal note, they missed the taciturn, yet mischievous agent; he had long ago earned their respect and admiration. Every day, they too continued to search, hope and pray.

Deeks sat in his chair before glancing over at his partner and when she didn't meet his eyes, he sighed and started typing on his laptop. He wondered what her latest act of kindness towards Sam had been and how it had been received, given the pre-lunch explosion. Kensi too, was upset by the abrupt absence of their team lead and she was coping by smothering Sam with kindness. She brought him coffee in the morning, healthy muffins; all sorts of little gestures, which Sam had graciously put up with for the first two weeks before finally exploding at her one day. It had been an ugly few moments in the bullpen and Sam had said things he didn't mean to Kensi, then immediately apologized. They both knew there was nothing wrong between them and everything was being driven by the absence of Callen. After their blow up and subsequent kumbaya moment, Kensi had scaled back a degree or so, but she was still trying to compensate for Callen's loss.

This morning had been the worse episode so far regarding Sam. Hetty had brought a new operative into the bullpen and before Hetty could say more than "Folks, this is Agent…" Sam had gone off on her like a heat seeking missile. He accused her of trying to replace Callen when there was no need too; Callen was coming back he stated loudly, defiantly and angrily. Hetty had stood there quietly, as Sam ranted and raved in a rather lunatic manner; especially for a man who was usually reserved with his speech and emotions. The poor unnamed Agent didn't know what to make of the whole scene as he stood there next to Hetty a bit bemused and dumbfounded. Everyone in the whole mission heard Sam's ruckus and had stopped their work to stare into the bullpen. Nell and Eric hung over the railing from above watching and unconsciously holding each other's hands for moral support; they had never seen Sam in such a black mood and could not believe the things he was saying to Hetty.

When Sam had finally come up for air, Hetty had quietly explained the agent standing alongside her was only visiting for the day, out of the New Orleans office. Deeks sworn Sam's jaw had dropped to his knees before he recovered saying 'Good. Cause Callen is coming back', then stormed out of the mission. The guy, whose name Deeks never did catch, drawled something about things being a little more laid back in the Big Easy.

There was no sign of the New Orleans's Agent when Deeks had returned from lunch; he guessed Hetty had changed her mind about him observing her once stellar, now broken team. Deeks hoped Callen did show up soon, because his cracker-jack team was at the point of implosion.


	18. Chapter 18

Ray winced as he lay in his ghost-white hospital bed, listening to his roommate thrashing and groaning and was certain it was mental not physical issues that were causing Tom's angst. Technically, Ray wasn't a doctor, even though he easily could have gotten his doctorate in psychology. The Navy hadn't required it and he had not gotten around to it; it was always on his to-do list but somehow never rose to the top. So when he had suggested to the Doctor tending Tom, that by restraining him and keeping him half-sedated, they were actually harming not helping him, the medical man had politely smiled at him before suggesting Ray focus his energies on healing himself and leave Mr. Martin to his expert care. It had irked Ray but he knew he was powerless in his current situation to affect any changes.

Sighing, Ray turned his head to the right but he wasn't able to see Tom because the shift nurse had drawn the curtain around Tom's hospital bed for privacy when she had given him a sponge bath and hadn't pushed it back when she was done. Shifting his focus to his left, Ray stared out the window, debating whether he should try ringing for the nurse to help Tom. However, if it was like the last time he tried, the nurse had taken one looked at Tom, called the Doctor, who in turn ordered more sedation. While that temporarily caused Tom to become quiet, a few hours later Tom was back to thrashing and trying to escape whatever demons were nibbling on his soul.

It was Ray's professional opinion, if they allowed Tom to regain full consciousness it would be beneficial, though in one sense he did understand the Doctor's reluctance to allow that situation. Unfortunately, the last time they had brought him around, Tom had ripped out his IV's and catheter, stumbled from the bed, and was halfway across the room before the staff could react. It had taken four men to subdue Tom and get him back into the hospital bed, but not before he laid some wicked punches on the men trying to help him. Once they wrestled him back into the hospital bed, the Doctor had promptly knocked him out and ordered restraints be put on his arms and legs. During the struggles, Tom had reopened a number of his wounds, much to the doctor's dismay. While it was tricky to keep a person with a head wound sedated, the Doctor felt the alternative of having him conscious, was equally risky.

Ray was still staring out the window, stewing, when a familiar voice, though one he had not heard in a few years, drifted across the ward.

"Never thought I'd see you on that side of the couch."

Ray turned his eyes towards the voice and a huge smile lit his face when his eyes confirmed what his ears thought. "Nate! What are you doing here?"

Nate ambled over to the side of Ray's hospital bed and shook the offered hand. "I heard through the grapevine you'd had a little mishap. Since I was in town, I thought I'd pop in and see you."

"This is a pretty long 'pop' from LA, assuming that is still your home port," Ray replied as he gestured for Nate to take a seat in the tall-backed arm-chair next to the bed.

"What's a few hundred miles between friends?" Even though the vinyl-coated chair was lower, Nate's height made it easy for the two to converse. "They tell me you had a little adventure that ended in your ticker missing a few beats." Nate settled back comfortably in the chair, adopting a relaxed pose, with one leg on his knee and his arms resting by his side.

Ray chuckled to himself as he realized Nate, like him, was always on the clock. Nate's posture was designed to make Ray feel relaxed and secure; once a shrink, always a shrink. Ray launched into his tale, starting with what he'd been doing since he left the Navy two years ago, before moving to his meeting with the mysterious stranger and ending at waking up in this hospital. "Tom's in the other bed," Ray said as he flicked his eyes towards the curtain before turning his attention back to Nate. Ray had noticed during the telling of his tale, especially when he talked about Tom, every now and then, an odd expression had passed across Nate's face. It was niggling at Tom's curiosity. Once a shrink...

The two men were momentarily interrupted by an aid that brought Ray his lunch tray, which she cheerfully placed on his rolling table before swinging it over his bed. Ray thanked her politely, though as soon as she left he pushed the tray aside. "Damn MRE's are better than this crap."

Nate smiled at his friend and colleague. "As a desk jockey, you couldn't have eaten many MRE's during your career, my friend."

"Enough to rank them better than that," he gestured towards the offending food.

"Want me to pop out and get you something else?" Nate asked sincerely. "I've been doing some field work and have learned how to be sneaky. I can get food by the nurses. No sweat."

Now it was Ray's turn to smile at his younger associate. "That comes as no surprise to me Nate Getz. I always knew you were destined to be more than a desk jockey."

Nate shifted in his chair, leaning forward a bit, belaying his excitement. "Yea, it's exhilarating." He paused a moment. "And nerve-wracking. And get this; they let me carry a gun."

Ray let his face droop in fake terror. "Now that is scary. Do they give you bullets too?" he questioned before grinning.

"I'm working up to that," Nate replied good-naturedly.

Ray heard familiar noises emanating from Tom's bed again and the smile that had been forming on his face quickly turned to a frown.

Nate caught the rapid mood shift and became concerned. "What's wrong Ray?"

"It's Tom," Ray sighed. "He saved my ass. I wouldn't be sitting here today if it weren't for him."

Nate nodded silently, encouraging Ray to continue, sensing something was deeply troubling the man.

"But there is something torturing that man. Though he never said, I know something bad happened to him recently, but it is more than that. I get the definite sense there is something underlying, even deeper, that has haunted him for a very long time. He's a professional agent, I'd stake my life on it, but I'm not a hundred percent sure for which side."

The plastic chair squeaked a bit as Nate resettled his lanky frame, as he tried to interpret Ray's comment. "You think he is either a professional crook or a cop?" Nate questioned taking a stab at it.

"Yep. My hunch is he is a three-letter man. Ray shrugged. "No clue which one though. I'll tell you what he is for certain and that is a chameleon. He can slip in and out of identities in the blink of an eye, smooth as silk and utterly convincing." Ray paused for a moment, lost in thoughts. "We had a client that was refusing to pay because we didn't catch any fish. Now it states clearly in my contact that I don't guarantee anyone will bring home the catch of the day. Hell, I'm not God and I can't make the fish bite. I'll do my damnedest to try, but fish are fish."

Nate nodded solemnly as if Ray had quoted some ancient proverb.

"So anyways, this client first gets hot under the collar when we bring onboard a striped bass that is only sixteen inches; state minimum is eighteen. While the guy is arguing with me to keep the fish, Tom grabs it and tosses it back. The client was livid. Of course, we catch nothing else for the rest of the trip. Back on the dock, I'm standing there arguing with this asshole who wants a refund, when Tom comes walking up. He gets right in this guy's face and reads him the riot act, though he doesn't lay a hand on him. However, his tone, his face, his posture; I gotta tell you Nate, Tom was scaring the shit out of me. The client nearly wet his pants, coughed up a nice tip and ran down the dock with his tail tucked between his leg. Then, as Tom and I stand there watching him depart, Madge's little boy, about four, comes barreling down the dock right into Tom's legs. Given the mood Tom was in, or at least appeared to be in, I was afraid he was gonna pick up the kid and toss him over the edge into the water."

Ray halted his narrative to take a sip of water before continuing. "But to my surprise, he doesn't. Tom scoops the kid up and his face is instantly transformed into this happy, cheerful fellow. He carries Jake, the kid, over to my fishing box on the dock and stands him on it so they are eye to eye. I hear him giving Jake a gentle, scolding about the danger of running down the dock and how it would worry his mama if he fell into the water. Tom gets more serious and reminds the kid he has to think of his mother. What if she fell off the dock chasing after him? That it's his job, to look after his mother. Well, now this kid gets this serious look on his face and confesses that he doesn't think his mama is a good swimmer and it could be dangerous for her. Jake solemnly promises Tom he'll be more careful, watch out and protect his mother. Tom ruffles Jake's hair like a favorite Uncle, sets him back down on the dock and tells him to head home. Five second later, Tom is back by my side, no trace of the bad-ass, no trace of the loving Uncle, wearing what I consider to be his normal persona, a rather, bored, plain vanilla expression, with just the merest hint of a smirk, that says he knows he just put something over on you and dares you to ask him."

Ray reached up and scratched the stubble on his chin. "I have learned in the short time I have known Tom, that asking him a question isn't going to produce any results. He'll only tell you what he wants you to know, when he wants you to know it. I gotta tell you Nate, he fascinates and frustrates me on a professional level, but on a personal level, I really like the guy. Drives me nuts, I can't help him as he lies over there suffering."

Nate sat up a little straighter in the chair. "Maybe I can help? What do you need?"

Ray went on to explain how the Doctors were treating Tom and providing his opinion on why it was wrong. Before he could finish, the sounds from the other bed increased and Nate could hear the rails rattling. The man was moaning something but Nate couldn't decipher the words. "What's he saying?"

Ray glanced over at the curtain partition. "I only catch snatches, but I think he cries out 'Sam' once and awhile." Ray shrugged his shoulders. "But I'm not sure."

"Callen. It couldn't be," Nate suddenly blurted as he bolted from the chair and ripped back the curtain separating the beds. There, lying in the white hospital bed was the very person for which Hetty had recalled him from his current assignment, to help locate.

"You know him," Ray stated rather than asked as he sat up straighter in his bed.

"Oh yeah," Nate said with a touch of irony. "He's been my nemesis for years."

"Oh, so he's a criminal then," Ray said with a hint of remorse.

"No," Nate replied moving closer to the bed. "He's one of the good guys. But," Nate added looking over his shoulder at Ray, "that is classified."

"Mums the word," Ray answered seriously. He'd been in the business and like Nate, had tended to the needs of the undercover operators. A simple slip-up, in the wrong place, could have their covers blown and their bodies thrown in a shallow grave. "He's undercover?"

Nate shook his head no. "I'll explain later. You said he was going by Tom?"

"Tom Martin, that's right," Ray confirmed.

Nate gazed down at Callen who was partially conscious and fighting against the restraints. "Got it. And explain again why they have him restrained? Do you know what they are giving him?"

As a professional, Ray had recognized the drugs they were giving Tom and he recited them verbatim to Nate, who started to shake his head violently.

"No. No. That's all wrong for him. He doesn't react well to those drugs. They are trapping him in his nightmares, making him feel vulnerable. That is the worst thing they can do to this man. Callen would rather be beaten to a pulp then forced to remain asleep." Nate winced realizing he had used Callen's real name, again. He glanced over at Ray and gave him a sheepish smile. "I'm usually much better in the field."

"And I usually don't blurt out things when people are trying to rescue me and endanger their lives," Ray countered with a grin. "Guess we are both human, contrary to what are patients think."

Nate stood up taller. "Well you are going to get a chance to watch me operate right now my friend. Pretend you don't know me when I come back."

Nate disappeared out the door and a short while later he came traipsing back into the room with his mile-long stride, while the Doctor that had been treating Tom, scurried behind him in an apologetic manner.

"I assure you Dr. Getz; I was doing what I thought best for the patient. There wasn't any medical history on him," the smaller Doctor explained.

Nate looked haughtily over his shoulder at the shorter Doctor. "And your best medical opinion was to chain my patient to his bed like a wild animal and drug him to the point of paranoia?"

The doctor tried vainly to explain his rationale, but Nate brushed him off and started making his own demands. "Undo those restraints. Now!" he barked at the nurse that had accompanied them into the room. The nurse made the mistake of glancing at the regular doctor for confirmation, which earned her a swift tongue lashing from Nate. "Nurse. I gave you an order. Do not look to him," Nate said it like he was talking about last night's smelly trash, "for verification. You will do what I say, when I say it. Or do I have to go print out my credentials to satisfy you first? Hmmm." Letting his graze sweep over all of them, he added, "Jamie won't be pleased."

The Doctor had to ask. "Jamie?"

With a regal expression that would have made the Queen of England proud, Nate replied, "James Madison Franklin Jefferson, the CEO of this establishment. I will see him tomorrow night. Our weekly bridge date. His cook simply makes the best canapés." Luckily, Nate remembered the CEO's name from a plaque in the lobby and since it was so unusual, and somewhat cruel in his opinion, it had stuck in his mind. Poor guy must have been teased a lot in school.

The Doctor's mouth, which had dropped open with the casual way this man had referred to their head-man, closed with a snap. He wasn't a stupid man; he understood the political world and knew this irate man, standing in front of him could probably get him fired with a snap of his fingers. The doctor nodded to the nurse, who hurried to remove the restraints from Callen's arms and legs. Nate proceeded to provide strict instructions on how he wanted Callen weaned off the medications they had him on. He finished by saying he, and he alone, would remain by his patient's side as he came back to consciousness to ensure there were no more episodes like the first one, which the way Nate said it, made it seem like it was all the Doctor's fault, even though he knew damn well it was all Callen's fault.

"Would you like us to, ah, move him to a private room," the doctor asked nervously glancing over at Ray.

Nate turned and walked over to Ray's bed but before he could speak, Ray pleaded "Please. Let me stay. He's my first mate and my friend. Maybe it would be a comfort for Tom to wake and see another familiar face besides your own, Sir." Ray grinned inwardly, thinking the 'sir' was a nice touch.

Twitching his fore-finger and thumb against his chin in a thoughtful manner, Nate finally replied, "You make a valid point. He stays," Nate declared turning his attentions back to the doctor and the nurse. "There is nothing more to be done here so off you go. And close the door behind you...please," he tacked on as an afterthought, as he dismissively turned his back on them.

After the two had left and firmly shut the door behind them, Nate let out a sigh and turned to grin at Ray. "How'd I do?"

"You were a pompous, royal pain-in-the-ass, exactly what those clowns needed." With concern, Ray looked over at Callen. "Is he going to be alright?"

Nate repositioned a chair so he could sit between Ray and Callen. "Depends on what you mean by alright. I think I can help him regain conscious and not turn into the Tasmania devil," 'maybe', he added under his breath. "But it you mean long-term, well...," Nate let the sentence drift-off.

"He's a good guy?" Ray reconfirmed.

"One of the best," Nate replied sincerely. "You know the type from your work. He'll give his life for his country and his team. He's one hundred percent all out. The guy you want on your side in a fire fight when everything is going to hell in a hand-basket."

"Unless he crashes and burns first," Ray added thoughtfully.

Nate sadly shook his head and scrubbed his face with a weary hand. "Yes. Exactly. Callen, well his nickname should be Phoenix for the number of times this man has managed to rise from the ashes." Nate turned his head to face Ray. "You still working part-time for the agency?"

Ray nodded slowly thinking to himself Nate was well informed. "More like on-call. I still have my TS clearance, if that's what you are asking."

Nate came to a swift decision. "Maybe you can help me. I have always respected you and your work as you know."

Ray blushed a little under Nate's praise.

Nate switched his gaze back onto Callen. "I can't tell you about his missions, but I can tell you about the man and perhaps, you can help me get him to come back."

"Come back? So I was right. He was running." Ray was pleased that his instincts from the beginning had been spot on. "Can you tell me about those scars? On his torso?"

Nate turned and quirked an eyebrow at Ray. "He showed them to you?" Nate asked incredulously.

"Not voluntarily," Ray chuckled and the he proceeded to relate the story of the falling poles to Nate. "I got a little dose of Tom's thoughts on medical issues from that escapade."

"Callen only has one thought on medical issues as you put it; to be avoided at all costs. If the man were bleeding out he tell you, 'I'm good'." Ray laughed out-loud remembering that was the exact phrase Tom had told him on the Ripple.

Nate settled deeper into the chair and started sketching out Callen's life to Ray. Most of the time he kept it at the 100 foot level but every now and then he dove deeper when he thought it was important to understanding what made Callen, Callen. Starting with his traumatic childhood, Nate ended with the horrific shooting of Joelle.

By the time Nate was done, Ray was physically exhausted from listening to the tale. His respect for the man grew and he vowed he'd do whatever he could to help this courageous man find his footing in life again.


	19. Chapter 19

When Ray feel asleep, Nate used that time to go make a quick call to Hetty to let the Shepherdess know her lost lamb had been found. After that he scooted down to the cafeteria to grab a quick bite and coffee-to-go before heading back to the room. The nurses on the night shift must have been warned about him because they gave him a wide-berth when he arrived back on the floor where Ray and Callen's room was located.

Ray was still slumbering when Nate got back into the room, so he quietly settled into the chair which was still between the beds. Callen appeared to still be heavily under the influence of all the drugs and remained quiet. Nate picked up a magazine laying on the nightstand that Ray had been reading earlier in the day, and he started to peruse the pages. About halfway thru an article he was reading, Nate found his eyes drooping shut. Twice he forced them open, but the third time, he lost the battle and they stayed firmly shut.

The nurse coming in to check on Ray and Callen woke Nate a few hours later.

"Dr. Getz. That chair over there pulls out into a bed if you'd be more comfortable," she informed him.

Looking a bit sheepish, he thanked her and after she left, pulled out the folding bed. He had a hard time trying to fit his long limbs on the narrow, short bed. When he finally did stop squiggling, he was sure he appeared ridiculous. However, he did manage to fall back asleep, though when he woke in the morning, he was incredibly stiff.

Ray was awake, but Callen was still unconscious and remained that way through the rest of the day. At times it would appear he was coming around, but then he would sink back into oblivion again. His nightmares reappeared periodically, though the seemed a little less severe now that he wasn't fighting the restraints too. Nate had left for a few hours to shower and eat, but he spent most of the day by Callen's bedside and talking with Ray. The two men caught up on the past two years, and then turned to more philosophical topics about their career field, cases and other topics. Both men were enjoying themselves as much as the location and the concern for the man in the bed next to them would allow.

Supper came and went along with the last Doctor visits of the day. Nate found his eyes growing heavy again and he dropped off to sleep in the chair, which was just as comfortable as the Hetty-sized fold-out bed. Nate woke with a start when he heard a loud crashing noise coming from Callen's vicinity.

The noise also woke Ray. "Nate!" he yelled struggling to get the side-rail down on his bed. "Tom!"

Nate's eyes flashed to Callen's bed and in the semi-darkness, he saw the agent was conscious, had already managed to rip the IV out of his arm, knock over its' stand, and was fighting to get the side down on his bed.

Leaping out of the chair, Nate rushed over to the bed and laid a gentle hand on Callen's shoulder. "Callen. It's ok," he said in a soothing voice.

Callen halted his exertions for a moment and refocused on Nate, whose heart sunk when he saw no recognition in Callen's haze-filled eyes. Violently, Callen wrenched his shoulder away from Nate's touch and then went back to trying to get the bed-rail lowered.

In the meantime, Ray had managed to get out of his bed and was heading towards Callen, when Nate spotted him out of the corner of his eye. "No Ray," he said firmly. "Stay back."

Nate reached out to try to restrain Callen, who nearly had the rail figured out and without warning; he found his arm being twisted cruelly by Callen. "Don't touch me," Callen growled menacingly. After giving little more torque to Nate's wrist, he let go.

Momentarily shook up, Nate instinctively took a step backwards as he rubbed his sore wrist. Ray came up to stand beside him for morale support.

"Callen. Please don't get out of the bed," Nate tried verbally reasoning with the man but Callen simply ignored him.

The rail clicked, lowered and Callen swung his feet over the side and sat up. As he was about to drop his feet onto the ground, a deep voice rang out behind Nate and Ray causing them to jump.

"I'd do what the man said, G." Sam walked around Ray and Nate to the side of Callen's bed and placed both hands on the smaller man's shoulder. The two psychologists held their breaths to see how the injured man would react. Callen halted his decent, his bright blue eyes stared into Sam's brown ones and the fog lifted a bit.

"I gotta go Sam. They're drugging me. I can't," Callen swallowed hard, "break free."

"It's Ok, G," the larger man reassured. "I'm here. I won't let them drug you anymore."

Callen bit his lower lip as he considered Sam's words. "I don't like it here."

Sam chuckled. "You never do. But you also never have the good sense to realize when you need to be here."

Ray was fascinated watching the interaction between these two men.

Callen shook his head, and then tried to slide out from under Sam's hold, which only caused the muscular man to tighten his grip. A flash of frustration cross Callen's face then was replaced by what Sam had come to think of as his partner's face of reason. Sam knew his partner of six years was now moving into negotiation mode.

"What if I promise to go straight home and right to bed?" Callen suggested.

"It's a twelve hour drive, G," Sam pointed out.

A little smirk twitched in the corner of Callen's mouth. "I'll sleep in the car."

Sam removed his hands from Callen's shoulders and crossed them across his chest. "Yea and what about me. I just drove all the way up here to keep you from doing something stupid, like you are currently doing. I'm tired."

"Ok. I'll drive," Callen quickly offered.

"Oh yea. And are you also gonna explain to Hetty and Michelle why you wrapped the car around a tree cause you fell asleep?"

"I'm not tired," Callen countered but his sincerity went out the window when his comment was followed up by a huge yawn that he was unsuccessful in stifling.

Unfolding his arms, Sam reached over and firmly swatted Callen's legs. "Get back in that bed!" he commanded. Callen glared at Sam but another yawn spoiled his defiant act so sheepishly, he gave in and swung his legs back onto the bed. "Good," Sam said gruffly, though he tenderly covered his partner's lower limbs with the sheet and blanket.

Nate and Ray moved to the far side of Callen's bed across from Sam, as the recalcitrant patient raised the head of his bed a bit before settling into the pillows.

"I'm hungry," Callen complained to his partner. "Why don't you run out and get me a burger."

Sam looked at the tipped-over IV stand. "How about I go get the nice nurse to hook you back up to your liquid feedbag?"

Callen unsuccessfully repressed a shudder. "You know, I'm really not that hungry."

Finally a nurse entered the room to see what the entire ruckus was about. She wasn't a happy camper to see one patient out of bed and the other one missing all the equipment that had been monitoring him. "Mr. Starkey. Back in bed this instance," she ordered.

Ray walked, in as dignified manner as possible for a man wearing a hospital gown, back to his bed. After he climbed back in it, the nurse put up the side-rail with a firm snap and a glare. "Let's keep this in the upright position shall we." Ray gave her a weak smile.

Next Nurse Rachet marched over to Callen's bedside, brushing past the imposing Sam, who did not seem to faze her at all. She righted the IV stand with humph, before turning her icy gaze on Callen. Callen quickly closed his eyes, pretending to be asleep. "Doesn't matter to me if you are asleep or awake when I insert the IV," she paused a beat, "or the catheter for that matter."

Callen's eyes flew open. "No needles. And I don't have to pee. Really."

The nurse was about to verbally counter when Nate stepped forward. "Nurse. I am Mr. Martin's doctor." The nurse turned, and cocked an eyebrow at him as if to say 'really'. Nate cleared his throat before continuing. "I think Mr. Martin is stable enough to forgo the IV."

"You think?" the nurse repeated a bit sarcastically.

"I meant to say he is," Nate quickly countered. Callen gave Nate a meaningful glare before flicking his eyes between his crotch and Nate's eyes. Nate got the message loud and clear. "There is also no need for a catheter either. Ah, Sam, who is a licensed physical therapist, can assist him out of the bed."

Sam gave his muscles a little flex as he looked over at the nurse who was clearly unhappy with this whole situation.

"We can handle it from here," Nate stated firmly. "We'll call you if we need any assistance."

Shaking her head, the nurse unhappily exited the room.

"You know she is going to go check with a doctor," Sam pointed out.

"No problemo Sam. I got that covered. They think I am Dr. Getz, personal friend of the Director of this establishment and their boss," Nate replied smugly.

"You are a Doctor," Sam pointed out.

"Well, yes. But not a medical doctor. I mean psychiatry is a medical field and I did study the same classes as the..."

"Real doctors," Sam interjected.

Nate stood up taller. "I'll have you know I excelled in my classes. All of them to include the surgical ones. However, it was psychiatry that became near and dear to my heart."

"Physician heal thee self," Sam retorted.

"Sam?" Callen pleaded. "Please don't let him touch me."

Nate, for once, was on his toes with a quick comeback. "Fine Callen. I'll call the nurse back and let her follow your original Doctors orders. You know, they aren't all that uncomfortable."

But Callen did know, all too well, both what Nate was referring to and how miserable they were to have in his body.

"I believe the word you are searching for his 'touché'," Nate supplied referencing an ongoing office joke.

Callen had the good graces to grin at Nate before letting out a big yawn as his eyes drifted shut and he was out like a light. Ray's eyes also closed as he too, drifted off the slumber land.

Nate and Sam stepped out into the hall to talk. "Your timing was impeccable."

Sam snorted. "You mean Hetty's. She had me out the door the moment she got your call

Nate gaze drifted away from Sam; his body language conveying his disappointment. "I couldn't control him."

"Don't beat yourself up Nate. No one can control him," Sam sincerely responded.

Nate refocused on Sam. "Don't sell yourself short. Callen responds to you."

"Responds, maybe. Listens, rarely." Sam turned serious again. "How is he Nate?"

Nate started walking down the sterile hospital hallway towards some chairs, tucked, into a secluded corner. Plopping in one, he gestured to Sam to take the other. "I have read his charts. I can list his injuries."

"Which are?" Sam promoted.

"Stab wound to the lower chest. Missed the lung and everything major. Gash on left thigh, but that appears to be an older wound that was recently aggravated again." Nate looked expectantly at Sam.

"Maybe from the car accident. With Hetty." Nate quirked an eyebrow at Sam. Obviously he didn't know about that. "I'll fill you in later. Anything else I need to be worried about? You know the moment he wakes up, he will be out of that bed and this hospital, whether he is officially released or not."

"Chart said he most likely also has a concussion. Then the usual list of ailments, blood loss, dehydration, bruising, and trauma."

"Oh, the normal every day, G Callen issues," Sam joked and Nate smiled. "And mentally?"

Nate's smile disappeared. "No clue. After the surgery to repair his wounds, they drugged him pretty heavily. Unfortunately the cocktail they choose, not knowing Callen's history, was a bad combination. Callen doesn't react well to most painkillers and sedatives."

Sam rolled his eyes. "Tell me about it."

"So," Nate continued. "When he woke up..."

"He went ballistic," Sam finished. "How much damage?"

"According to what I heard on the floor, he got in some fairly nasty hits." Nate unconsciously rubbed his wrist, the one that Callen had seized earlier, a fact that did not go unnoticed by Sam.

"He got you too?" Sam questioned.

"More of a warning I guess. He could have easily broken it," Nate replied matter-of-factly. "I should have known better."

"Yeah, you should. Hetty called you. About Joelle?"

Nate rubbed a weary hand across his stubble on his chin as he nodded in concurrence. "Hell of a thing. How's Michelle doing?"

Now it was Sam's turn to sigh. "The gunshot wound was minor. Couple of days of not using the arm and she was good to go."

Nate, being what he was, knew the crux of the issue has not been brought to light yet. "But..."

"She feels guilty. She was the one playing matchmaker with Callen and Joelle. Michelle knows Callen's background, that him letting Joelle into his life was a big leap of faith..."

"Which ended badly," Nate concluded.

"Big time," Sam agreed.

"But it's not Michelle's fault," Nate stated.

Sam grunted leaning forward in the chair, to stretch out his kinked back muscles. "Yea, well you can go tell her that if you want. I wasn't all that successful."

Nate went into psychiatrist mode. "What she is feeling is natural. She is fond of Callen. Protective. Like you. She feels she let him down. Like a mother who unintentionally let her child get hurt."

"You done analyzing my wife, Dr. Getz," Sam sarcastically asked as he sat back up in his chair.

Nate flushed a little. "Guess I'm preaching to the choir." Sam nodded in agreement. "Well, back to the point, I can't access Callen's mental state until the drugs clear his system.""

"We need a plan." Pausing for a few minutes, Sam formulated a few scenarios in his mind, before settling on one. "Do you think he is well enough to leave tomorrow?"

"It would be best to give him another 24 hours, to totally clear the drugs from his system, and make sure there is no infection in any of the wounds," Nate stated.

"Fine. One more day here then I am dumping his skinny white ass in my car and driving him back to LA," Sam announced with determination.

"And if he doesn't want to go?"

"I have handcuffs in the trunk," Sam dead-panned and Nate wasn't sure if he was joking or not.


	20. Chapter 20

As it turned out, Callen spent a few more days in the hospital because his chest wound developed an infection. Nate had Hetty send Callen's medical records to the hospital and he foraged a relationship with the real doctors in the hospital to develop a treatment plan for Callen's recovery. The doctors and nurse weren't bad people. They had been operating without knowing any knowledge of their patient. Once they had Callen's medical history, or as it was labeled 'Tom Martin', they realized how their previous treatment had been hurting, not helping 'Tom'. They devised a new plan, which helped Callen, though he was still far from an ideal patient. Nothing in the world would ever change that fact.

Ray was released from the hospital, though every day he came back and spent time visiting with Callen. As Callen recovered physically, Nate tried to work on his mental well-being. However, Callen refused to engage in any dialogue about Joelle with him.

During the days in the hospital, that he and Callen had been bunk mates, Ray had gotten a chance to see Callen interact with both Nate and Sam. Ray had felt sorry for his fellow psychiatrist, as he tried to get Callen to discuss the incident with Joelle; Callen stonewalled him at every turn.

One evening, after Nate and Sam had left to go grab some food, Ray had spoken frankly to Callen. Even though he knew Callen's real name, he still called him Tom since that is what the hospital records said. They had been talking about a news story they had both just watched on the room TV. In the lull of the conversation Ray had said, "You know Nate told me about Joelle," and he watched as Callen immediately went on the defensive.

"I thought there was something in the medical world called confidentiality," Callen had instantly retorted.

Ignoring him, Ray had gone on to say, "You do know Nate is only trying to help you."

"Don't need help," came the stubborn reply.

"Maybe. Maybe not. But still, it is Nate's job to ensure that you are mentally stable and enable to fulfill your duties," Ray had rapidly countered.

Callen's reply had been short and staccato. "Been thru worse. I'm still functioning."

"Mental trauma is cumulative, not all that dissimilar from physical. You beat up any body part long enough and it will break. Mind is no different," Ray had patiently explained.

Callen had stayed silent for such a long period of time, that Ray thought the man must have nodded off.

Eventually, Callen did speak one last time on the subject, simply saying, "I'm not ready yet."

"But when you are?" Ray prompted.

"If and when I am, I will speak to someone. If I feel the need to," Callen caveated and that had been the end of the discussion.

So later that night, when Nate had come back from the hospital, frustrated because once again he had fought a losing battle with Callen on the Joelle subject, Ray had suggested he return to LA.

"If you want my opinion, not that you asked but I am going to give it anyways, you can hound Callen to the end of the earth, but until he is ready, if he is ever ready, he is not going to talk. And when he does, it might not even be to you," Ray philosophically pointed out.

"But it's my job," Nate complained.

"It's you job to access and determine his mental state, but not be his confessor. In this case, I think the person Callen needs to talk to about Joelle is Sam. And I think he will, when he is ready." Ray sat back in his chair and watched Nate process the data.

Nate objectively thought over what Ray said andknew it made sense, so he had called Hetty and told her he was coming home, alone. After some explanation, Hetty agreed with his returning, leaving Sam behind to do mop up and bring Callen home when he was ready.

Nate had left the next morning, after a final visit to Callen in the hospital. He explained to Callen he was being recalled by Hetty and Callen had simply wished him a safe journey back. As Nate was walking out the door, Callen called after him.

"Nate?"

Nate stopped and turned around to face Callen's bed.

"Thanks."

It was a one hundred percent, sincere thanks and it made Nate feel great. That simple, yet heart-felt word, told him his presence, in whatever fashion, had been a help and comfort to Callen and Callen wanted him to know that, in the only way he could.

There was nothing more for Nate say other than "Any time Callen," and with that, he turned and walked out the door knowing he had done his job. He could return to LA and whatever task Hetty had for him next with a clear conscience.


	21. Chapter 21

"I'm leaving. I'm done here." This ultimatum was delivered, standing in the middle of the hospital room, in an air conditioned gown, by a man hooked to an IV stand. While that, to some, may have painted a pitiful picture, the tone of voice and the facial expression of the deliver brooked no argument; this man was deadly serious.

The other man casually sitting in the chair, muscular forearms bulging and crossed on his chest, wasn't buying into the speech. "You still are running a temperature, which means, if you can't figure it out, you still have an infection. Until that goes away, that pole by your side is your new best friend."

Callen shuffled across the room, dragging the dreaded IV along with him only because he knew if he didn't, it would rip out of his skin and hurt like hell; he knew that from personal experience. Perching on the edge of the bed, he brooded. "If you are implying you were my old best friend, think again buddy. Not even in the top ten."

Sam glanced over a Callen with a sardonic grin. "You don't have a top ten list cause you don't have any friends. Can't make a list out of zero."

Scowling, Callen formulated a new plan. "Maybe," he started in a most reasonable tone, "I still have a slight temperature..."

"You do."

"And maybe I still have a very minor infection..."

"You do."

Callen glared at Sam and fought to keep his tone even. "But both can be treated at home, thru oral drugs. No reason to stay here." Sam stared neutrally at Callen, which irked his partner even more. "Tell me I'm wrong Sam," he demanded.

"You wrong."

"Damn it. I'm not! And I'm leaving, with or without you."

Sam inwardly sighed recognizing his partner's mood and knowing he was absolutely serious. One way or another, Callen had no intentions of staying here another night, so Sam tried to salvage the situation. "Fine. I'll go hunt down your Doctor, get some prescriptions for oral antibiotics and you can leave. Good?"

Callen nodded and started to slide back off the bed.

"What are you doing?" Sam asked as he rose from the chair.

Callen looked at him like he was nuts. "Getting dressed. Can't go home dressed like this." The gown flapped open a bit reveling more than Sam wanted to see.

"You get back in that bed and stay there until I get back or so help me, I will tie you to that bed, leave and get Hetty up here. The let's see how smug you are then," Sam threaten.

Like a petulant child, Callen climbed back into the bed and twitched the covers over his legs. "Good?"

"Yea. Don't move a muscle," Sam instructed, heading towards the door.

"Can I breath? That means moving muscles ya know," Callen called after his retreating partner. Sam muttered something as he left the room and Callen was pretty sure he didn't want to know what it was.

The impatient agent sat in the bed as instructed, drumming his fingers against his good leg and watching the clock slowly tick by the minutes. Fifteen minutes later, a nurse walked into the room with a tray of needles.

"Time for your shots, Mr. Martin," she said in that fake cheerful tone that nurses used, even though they knew and you knew that no one wanted the damn shots.

Callen took one look at the tray with the three needles sitting on it and decided that he was done with this place no matter what he told his partner; he was out of here now. When the nurse got closer with the tray he 'accidentally' hit it, dumping the contents on the floor. Turning on his choirboy charm, he profusely apologized. He could tell she was highly annoyed, but she kept her cool and told him she would be back in a bit with a new set.

Callen had no intentions of being around when she returned, even though he knew Sam was going to be majorly ticked at him. However, his intense dislike of needles won out and he started pulling the tape off his arm that was securing the IV line. With a grimace, he pulled out the needle then pressed the piece of gauze he had wadded up over the puncture. Spotting a roll of the stretchy bandage cloth, he wrapped it around his arm, securing the gauze pad in place. Then he went quickly to where his clothes were stored and four minutes later he was out the door.

His luck held and the hallway was empty, as he slipped down it to the bank of elevators. Practically bouncing on his toes waiting for one to arrive, he debated if instead he should find the staircase. However, despite all his bravado, he was feeling weak and if the room numbers corresponded to floors, he'd have to walk down fourteen flights of stairs. Callen thought his odds of making it were very slim. Finally, an elevator arrived; the doors opened and revealed it was empty inside. With a sigh of relief, he pushed the button for the lobby. A few minutes later he was outside and a free man, that is until Sam found him. Then, he would be a dead man. Oh well, it wasn't the first time he hadn't listened to his partner and if he survived this time, probably not the last.

It had taken Sam twenty minutes to find Callen's doctor, and another ten to convince him that it really was in his partner's best interest to be immediately released. The doctor had totally disagreed, but eventually agreed to support the decision when Sam told him one way or another they were leaving today, and he would much prefer it was with the necessary prescriptions to help Callen to continue to heal outside the hospital. The doctor finally relented, but only after Sam promised they would sign the form that said Callen was leaving against medical advice.

It had taken another ten minutes for the doctor to write up the prescriptions Callen would need to take, as well as procure some samples for immediate use. Glancing at his watch as he rode the elevator back up to the fourteen floor where Callen's room was located, Sam realized forty minutes had elapsed.

As he walked into Callen's room, he announced, "You owe me big time for this one." His eyes swept the room, quickly showing him it was empty. A glance at the bathroom door, which was ajar, showed it to was devoid of his partner. Sam swung around and collided with a nurse, who was entering the room, carrying a tray of needles. For the second time today, the contents tumbled to the ground and if looks could kill, Sam would have been dead.

"Twice in one day. This is so not my day," the nurse griped as she bent over to pick up the spilled items.

Sam started to help but she waved him off. What the nurse said suddenly registered with his brain. "Were you here earlier with that tray of needles?"

The nurse straightened up with a snort. "Yep. And Mr. Martin accidentally knocked it out of my hand."

"I'll bet he did," Sam said under his breath. He knew he didn't have to search any further for his missing partner in the hospital. Callen was long gone.

The nurse suddenly realized that Mr. Martin wasn't in the room. "What the ..."

Sam was pretty sure the next word was going to be 'hell' but the nurse caught herself.

"Where is Mr. Martin?" She turned her annoyed, brown eyes on Sam assuming, he knew something, which he did, sort of.

"The Doctor released him," Sam told her.

"In the last fifteen minutes? Who took out his IV? Nobody gets released that fast around her. There are procedures and protocols."

Sam grinned ruefully. "My friend isn't big on following procedures and protocols. I suspect he skipped a few steps in his departure."

"We'll just see about this!" she declared, turning on her heel and marching out of the room. Sam trailed along behind because there was nothing left of Callen's in the room. The man had grabbed it all and ran.

It took another thirty minutes to straighten out all the required paperwork to have Mr. Martin officially released by the hospital. Sam's mood was incredibly bad by the time he left with a handful of papers, prescriptions and medical supplies for Callen. Callen better hope that it took Sam awhile to find him because right now he was so annoyed, he might just do something to Callen that would put him right back in the hospital.


	22. Chapter 22

Callen paid the cab driver when they arrived at the marina giving him a good tip for being brave enough to pick him up; he knew he looked like Deeks when he was on assignment playing a derelict. Ironically, the cab had dropped him off by the exact same bench that he'd been sitting on when he first met Ray. Exhausted, Callen gratefully sank down on the brown recycled bench to take a mental and physical break. As he sat there soaking in the view, he wondered how long it would take Sam to find him and how annoyed he would be at him. His educated guess? Probably not long and extremely pissed. Oh well, not the first time he had disappointed his partner.

With a sigh, he pushed his weary body off the bench and headed down to the docks were the Ripple was moored. He spotted the boat in her customary berth; the Coast Guard must have towed her back after their adventure with the pirates. As he walked down the wooden dock, he noted the scars from the recent battle on her hull and other structures. Gouges and scrapes marred her once pristine white sides, and bullet holes abounded on the cabin and bridge. Poor girl was going to need some serious elbow grease to set her right. A part of him pondered if Hetty would tolerate him staying here for a few more weeks and helping in the repairs. He hoped the engine had not been compromised, by him fouling the propeller with the rope. Usually, an event like only disabled the engine temporarily and he hoped that was the case with the Ripple.

Footsteps echoed on the dock behind him and he knew to whom they belonged. "How long?" he questioned, not even bothering to turn around.

Ray had gotten a fairly good understanding of the man that was G Callen and was able to translate his terse question. "I'd say Sam will be here in about forty-five minutes." Ray followed Callen's gaze over to the Ripple, as he came up alongside of him. "Your partner sounded pretty annoyed on the phone at your, ah, unscheduled departure from the hospital."

Callen reached up and ran a hand over his stubbly chin. "It really wasn't unscheduled. Just accelerated… slightly."

"Hmmmm. I'm not quite sure that is how Sam sees it."

"Probably not," Callen agreed. "But then again he didn't see the needles either," Callen added in a rather abstract manner.

"Wouldn't be too sure of that fact. But at any rate, he'll be along shortly." Ray gave Callen a critical once over. "Maybe we should go onboard and sit down, before you fall down." Callen distractedly nodded his head in agreement, following Ray onto the Ripple's aft deck and plopping heavily into the nearest fishing chair. He could still see traces of Ray's blood on the surrounding once-white deck.

"I suppose you'll be wanting me to mop that up," Callen drawled with a hint of humor.

Ray traced where Callen was staring and grinned. "That would be nice but I think your big boss would like you back in LA."

"People usually don't describe her as big." Callen heaved a deep sigh as his eyes sought the open water outside the marina's border. "I suppose she does want me to return, if for nothing else as to 'chew me a new one' as she so elegantly puts it." After a slight pause he added "And then fire me."

"I wouldn't be so sure of that. She seemed quite concerned about your well-being when we spoke on the phone."

"Only," Callen ruefully replied, "because she wants to kill me herself, probably with her bare hands, and have no doubts, she could do it."

"Hetty? Of course she could, though I think she'd rather use one of her exotic weapons," Ray thoughtfully surmised.

Callen slowly turned his head to stare at Ray. "Why do I get the feeling you know Hetty?" He punctuated each word with disbelief.

"I think everyone in the business knows that crafty fox." Ray gave a little laugh. "Aren't you scared of crossing her?"

"Maybe. A little," Callen answered somewhat noncommittally before focusing his bloodshot eyes back on the water.

Ray grinned then switched back to his original topic. "How are you feeling?"

Callen gave a quick sideways glance at the other man. "Are you going to tell Sam what I answer? Or Hetty?"

Ray crossed his heart. "Nope. Doctor, patient confidentiality."

Callen let a genuine grin slide across his face. "In that case then, I feel like crap."

"Well, if it is any consolation, you look like crap too. I really don't think I'll have to say anything to Sam when he gets here. One look at you and he'll know exactly how you are. Even you can bluff your way out of this one."

"Thanks for that ego boost there, Ray," Callen said sarcastically; though there was no real malice in the words.

Silence reigned for a while, as the two men simply sat in the fishing chairs contemplating the meaning of life. Finally, Ray broke the quietude. "You going back?"

Callen's tone grew bitter. "Do I have a choice?"

"Of course you do. You can choose to let your lone wolf nature rule you, pack up and keep running. That has been your default for most of your life hasn't it?" Ray gently demanded.

Callen scowled deeply, fatigue lines etching themselves in his tanned face. "You suddenly seem to know a lot about me."

Ray gave a little shrug. "I know what Nate chose to tell me, but more important, I know what I have seen thru my own observations over the past weeks. Callen, you know what I did, and not to be hubris, I was very good at my job. Don't sell me or yourself short," Ray concluded.

Ray watched as Callen struggled with his inner emotions. "They don't get it," he stated rather philosophically, though with a hint of despair.

"If by them, you mean Hetty or Sam, then you are gravely mistaken. They get it. They get you can't trust people." Ray paused and watched the emotions play across Callen's face; a rare event and Ray felt privileged, that Callen was letting down his guard, a bit, in his presence. He picked up his conversational thread. "They watch you struggle to get past your trust issues and are one hundred percent on your side. They want to help you. Stop pushing them away!" Ray looked away and let Callen process for a bit before he started up again. "So shall we talk about the real elephant in the room or on the aft deck?"

Embittered, but not stupid, Callen muttered. "Joelle." Sarcastically he added, "I suppose you are going to tell me that wasn't my fault; putting a bullet thru her brain."

"Did you do it deliberately, or to save the lives of Sam and Michelle?" Ray questioned ignoring Callen's crass delivery. Between Hetty and Nate, Ray knew the whole story behind the Joelle incident. "As Hetty told you, Joelle was after Michelle, not you. In this case, you were the innocent by-stander who got in the cross-fire. Joelle had a vendetta against Michelle for supposedly killing her husband. In Joelle's warped mind, killing Sam, in front of Michele, would even the score."

"If I hadn't been stupid enough to start to fall for Joelle…"

Ray immediately cut him off. "Stop. Admit it. You're human. You got played. It happens to the best of us, even you Agent Callen."

Anger flashed on Callen's face then quickly dissipated. The man was right. Grouchily he grumbled, "You sound like Nate."

"Who do you think mentored him when he first joined?" Ray thought back to those days. "I could see when he first arrived at the agency, he had a gift hidden inside that gangling frame he calls his body. People innately trust him, feel comfortable around him. Though, to be honest, I never imagined him as a field agent."

Now it was Callen's turn to grin. "I remember the first time we took him on a case with us. He wanted to know if he got to carry a gun."

"Heaven forbid!" Ray fervently said.

Callen was sincere in his praise. "Yea, but he has turned out to be a good agent; perfect for the type of assignments Hetty gives him."

"Still," Ray said a little mournfully, "I feel bad for the guy."

Curious, Callen asked, "Why is that?"

A huge grin spread across Ray's face. "Cause he has to deal with you. He told me some of the things that you have done, or masterminded. He said he'd rather have splinters inserted under his fingernails than conduct your reviews."

Callen had the decency to look abashed, though he couldn't totally control the small, smug, smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

"Ah, if I still worked for the agency, I think I would enjoy you as a project. Wait, I do consult for them still. Maybe I should conduct your bi-annual review," Ray said excitedly. "Would you like that Agent Callen?"

Callen cocked his head to the left, one hundred and ten percent smug. "So you think you are up to it?"

Ray was a sharp man and recognized Callen was starting a question challenge so he jumped onboard. "You don't think I am?" he queried back.

"Did Nate tell you that once, during an exam, I made him cry?"

"And are you proud of that, Agent Callen?"

"Should I be?"

"Do you understand it is Nate's job to help you get past the mental rigors of your job?"

"Are you saying that by simply talking to Nate, my 'mental stress' will go away?"

Ray quickly countered. "So you have never felt better after talking to Nate?"

That actually caused Callen to pause and think for a moment, though he quickly recovered. "Does Nate think that him talking to me has helped?"

"Do you think that talking to Nate, or Hetty, or Sam, about Joelle's unfortunate death, instead of running away, might have been a good idea Callen?"

Everything finally caught up with Callen, and he bowed his head and let the memories of Joelle wash over him. The waves of grief he had been holding at bay, flooded over him and washed him away. Ray watched in silence as Callen's shoulders shook from the silent crying wracking his frame.

It was at that point, Sam came down the dock. "Permission to come onboard" he called out as he approached the side of the boat. However, he took one look at this bowed-over partner and didn't wait for a reply. He was on the boat and by Callen's side in a flash. "G!" and though he only spoke a single letter, his voice was packed with care, concern and protectiveness


	23. Chapter 23

_Author's Note: I have to start by thanking everyone that takes the time to leave reviews. I know everyone's lives are busy. You all are awesome. Also, a lot of the reviews this time around have helped improve this story. I don't usually revise a story after I start posting, other than grammatical issues which I catch because I re-read each chapter before I post it. However, this story, as some were sharp enough to catch and kind enough to note had some missing plot points. I actually was able to rectify them in the out chapters that hadn't been posted. I think that helped make this a bettered rounded story. Now we move on. If you were watching this on TV, and this was an hour long drama, and you glanced up at the clock, you'd see we are in the last ten minutes of the show. Enjoy._

Sam laid his hand on Callen's quivering shoulder and Ray noted that Callen accepted the gesture without a flinch. That to Ray spoke volumes about the relationship between the partners. Whether or not Sam truly recognized it, he had earned Callen's full trust, an event that was monumental. Hetty had spoken to Ray a bit about her pairing of the two men as partners and her goals for both of them, and Ray could see she had achieved at least one of her goals for Callen. She had managed to give him a partner he had learned to trust.

Sam gently removed his hand, as he coldly eyed the older man, wondering what Ray's role was in causing his partner's uncharacteristic distress. "What happened?" Sam hotly demanded, not bothering to disguise his anger towards the man that had apparently caused his partner pain.

Ray pitied the man or woman that ever tried hurt Callen; Sam would tear them apart without hesitation. Not only had Hetty done a good job with the pairing, but Nate was right in his assessment of the two partners. Callen had finally found family, a brother, in Sam; albeit super-protective one.

Callen straightened from being hunched over, stood and moved to lean against the Ripple's wooden rail where he stared down at the brackish water in the marina. "Leave him alone Sam," he choked out.

Sam positioned himself on the rail perpendicular to Callen and let some of the tension flow from his body. "You left the hospital. Without me," Sam accused, but without maliciousness as he stared at the back of his partner's head.

"The nurse had needles, three of them. Large," Callen softly mumbled.

"Yea, which you deliberately knocked on the ground and then" Sam regrettably admitted, "I accidentally spilled. The nurse wasn't a happy camper."

Sam could hear a slight note of amusement in Callen's one word reply. "Really?"

"Oh yea. Then, I got an earful, not only from her but from every nurse and doctor on that floor that had to deal with you."

"I'm not a good patient," Callen replied stating the obvious.

"Ya think?" Sam rolled his eyes. "How come I always seem to be the one that has to bear the brunt of your medical shenanigans."

"Wanna compare scars," Callen challenged with a bit of false bravado.

"You're not careful G," Sam accused

Callen raised his head slightly, shifting his focus from the water to the sky. "You think I'm reckless? That I put the team in danger?" Callen's tone was a mixture or disbelief and hurt.

Sam snorted defensively. "I think you are reckless when it comes to your own well-being. Not the team. You don't have to always be the one who throws himself on the bomb to save the world."

Callen cocked his head a bit to the side in contemplation. "I think you're wrong. As the team lead, I think it is my duty to put myself in danger if it means saving others."

"Danger yes. I get that. It's part of our job. I was as ready to die on that sub with you if that is what it took to save the aircraft carrier." Sam made reference to a past case.

Callen rounded on his partner, anger sounding in his voice. "The way I recall it, Sam, you were the one that needed a pep talk in that sub. You're always asking how I feel. Ya wanna know how I felt on that sub? I felt like you checked out on me down there. Like you weren't going to fight. That you gave up."

Ray, in a professional fashion, was fascinated by the conversation. He sensed Callen didn't often get this honest about his feelings and judging by the expression on Sam's face, he was surprised too.

Sam collapsed into the fishing chair behind him, his body radiating failure. "You're right. I did let you down and I'm not proud of it."

Sam and Callen's eye met, and Ray felt an entire unspoken conversation pass between to two partners before Callen spoke aloud again.

"I get it, Sam. I know you and confined spaces. But people depend on you. Kensi, Deeks, Hetty, Michelle, Jasmine," Callen paused a beat before adding, "Me." Callen scrubbed his hands over his weary face. "I know someday in this job you may die, I may die, hell we all may die. But if that happens, I need to know we went down fighting, giving it all we got, cause if we don't," Callen gestured in a futile manner with his hand, "then there is no meaning in any of this."

Sam's next words held an undercurrent of his own anger. "You're right. We may die. But I get the impression you think your death is a done deal. Don't deny it. I have heard you say, more than once, you don't expect to be around to reach old age. How do you think that makes me feel?"

Callen braced both hands back on the varnished wooden rail, to hold himself upright. His head dropped low between his shoulders and Ray had the distinct feeling Sam had scored a direct hit on Callen.

"I'm sorry," Callen whispered sincerely and Sam was a bit surprised to hear Callen capitulate so easily. He decided to try to get thru to his partner on a subject often felt, but unspoken.

"G. I'm not sure you'll believe. Hell, if I grew up the way you did, I'm not sure I would believe either. But there are people in your life that care deeply about you. And I'm sorry. About Joelle." Sam watched as Callen's whole frame slumped again. "But don't use that as an excuse to push everyone and everything away again. Don't run. You accused me of giving up in the sub, and rightly so, well I'm accusing you of giving up now."

Ray watched Callen's body language like a hawk to see how he was going to react to this accusation. It was easy for a trained psychologist, such as himself, to see Callen was on the edge, and he needed time to process; whether he should take a step forward into the uncharted territories of allowing himself to remain part of the larger herd or retreat to the safe ground of a lone wolf. It was Ray's professional opinion that Callen couldn't or shouldn't make that decision yet; mentally and physically he wasn't ready, so Ray stepped forward, touching Sam lightly on the shoulder, and when Sam glanced up at him, gave him subtle negative head indicating he needed to back off.

"I don't know about you boys," Ray said brightly, "but I'm hungry. What's say we go to the deli up the street, grab some sandwiches, take'm back to the condo and wash them down with some cool beers." Ray moved away from the two agents in a confident manner that showed he expected them to follow. He carefully climbed up onto the dock.

With vigor, Sam pushed his body out of the chair. "Great idea Ray. I'm starved. G?"

Callen let go of the rail, moving a bit unsteadily towards the dock. As he brushed past Sam, the larger man reached out and clapped him companionably on the shoulder. "Ya need a hand getting up on the dock oh wounded one?" Sam gently teased.

To spite Sam, Callen marshaled the last of his dwindling energy supply, bounded up on the dock, then turned and offered a hand to Sam. "Need help their partner?"

Sam snorted, ignoring Callen and hopped onto the dock unassisted. "That'll be the day."

The three men started strolling down the wooden planks of the dock. "What kind of deli is this? Not one of those healthy types like my partner always wants to eat in," Callen groused.

"No. This is a genuine New-York- style deli. Knishes, sour pickles, rye bread piled high with corn-beef. They even have tongue!" Ray enthusiastically answered.

Callen stepped around the dirty white mooring bumper that someone had flung up on the dock. "You should feel right at home there Sam, growing up in New York and all."

"You grew up in New York, Sam? I have spent some time in that city," Ray announced conversationally and soon the two men launched into an in-depth conversation on places they mutually knew.

Callen was perfectly happy letting Ray and Sam converse without him, as he was finding it an increasing struggle just to remind upright. When they got to the deli, he spotted a bench out front and he wearily plopped down on it. "Get me something, will ya Sam. Maybe a Reuben, with extra cheese and coleslaw."

"Oh yea," Sam sarcastically replied. "Just what a man, who spent the last week in a coma, lying on his ass, needs to eat."

Callen squinted slightly at his partner. "I wasn't in a coma, technically. It was induced."

"And you weren't awake either, technically. I will find something nice, light, and easy to digest, like chicken soup. That outta be good at a deli."

"If you walk out of that store with a container of soup in one hand, there better be a bag in the other with three knishes, a couple of pickles, and a container of coleslaw and macaroni salad," Callen called after them as they walked into the store. "Maybe a bagel too. With lox. And real cream cheese. No fat free, Sam. No light! And no veggies on it!" Exhausted after his little tirade, Callen slumped back on the bench closed his eyes and let the sun soak into his enfeebled limbs.

Once inside the deli, the men took a number and waited to be called upon. Sam skimmed the menu. No way he was getting Callen what he requested. The man had barely eaten solid food in days. While soup would be the right choice, or maybe a salad, Sam also knew his partner wouldn't put up with either, would continually whine, and would sneak out on his own to get 'real' food. A compromise was in order. Sam's eyes settled on the turkey sandwich on marble-rye.

When it was their turn to order, Sam got two turkey sandwiches; one with no mayo, extra lettuce and tomato and one with mayo, avocado, after all this was LA, lettuce, tomato and as a concession bacon, though it was turkey bacon. Sam knew the mere presence of the bacon, if Callen didn't figure out it was fake, would help offset the veggie component in his partner's eyes. Ray ordered his food, and then three large containers of coleslaw, potato and macaroni salad. The guy behind the counter obviously knew Ray, because when the bag came, it also had a container of pickles and three generous slices of cheesecake.

When they walked out the door, Sam saw Callen seated, leaning on the back of the bench, eyes closed. The fact that he and Ray almost got to his partners location, before he saw the slightest tell that Callen knew they were there, concerned Sam. Callen rarely left himself that exposed and unaware in a public setting; it only meant one thing in Sam's experience; Callen had, once again, pushed his body past the edge and it was now rebelling and the man had no reserve left to fight it. Callen needed to get somewhere, eat and rest. Giving his partner a light swat on the shoulder, he said "Come on. I'm not carrying you."

Callen opened his eyes, blinking a bit in the bright California sunshine. "Like I need your help," Callen said with a snort as he lurched to his feet. Luckily, Sam was close by and reached out a hand to steady his partner, or he had the distinct feeling Callen would have toppled over.

Callen gave his partner a rather sheepish smirk, and then steadied himself. "So what's in the bag?" he inquired eyeing the bag in Ray's hand as well as the one in Sam's. They looked fairly substantial.

"The 'Central Park' salad. A nice, easily digestible, garden salad. I was even enough of a sport to have them put chicken on it," Sam dead-panned.

"Fried?" Callen asked hopefully.

Sam shook his head no. "Grilled, with lite raspberry vinaigrette."

With a shudder, he intoned, "Fruits and vegetables." Callen turned his intentions on Ray. "Ray, buddy, tell me it isn't so."

Ray actually felt good that Callen was willing to involve him in his banter with Sam. In his professional opinion, the banter between the two men was a bit of a sacred ritual, a shared bond, a manly expression of affection, as well a stress reduction and coping mechanism. He was honored to be allowed to step, even if it was only a toe, into the inner circle of the Callen-Sam ring. "No worries. I have your back. I told Sam you needed meat to promote red blood cell generation. Help with the blood loss you sustained."

"I'm liking you more and more Ray," Callen happily interjected.

"So, I convinced Sam you would be much better off with the 'Fifty Ways to Love Your Liver' platter."

Callen rolled his eyes. "Any chance that doesn't contain liver?"

Ray shook his head no as the three men climbed the short flight of stairs that lead to Ray's front door. Once inside, they dropped the bags on the table that afforded a view of the water in the distance. Sam started unpacking the contents while Ray went to the kitchen to commandeer beverages.

Callen watched with suspicion as Sam emptied the bags. There were three wrapped packages that looked like sandwiches, and he visibly brighten when he saw the containers of salads, pickles and the cheesecake.

Ray came back with three bottles of beer and Callen was relieved again to see the word 'light' was nowhere on the label. The three men took their seats and Sam shoved a sandwich in Callen's direction. Cautiously, almost as if it were a live bomb, Callen removed the paper-backed foil wrapper. He was partially relieved to see what was overflowing the edges of the bread was pale in color, definitely not liver. Still, he had to bust Sam's chops. "Turkey? Haven't we had this discussion before about my feelings on bird meat between bread, especially if it is not deep-fried? Is there even mayo on this thing?"

Sam, who had unwrapped his leaned-down sandwich and taken a big bite, mumbled an answer. "Look under the hood."

Again, with exaggerated care, Callen peeled back the marble-rye bread to reveal what it was hiding. The first thing he noted was the mayo, generously slathered, on the bread. Next came the strips of bacon, molded to the turkey by the mashed avocado. Callen picked off a strip of bacon and contently munched on it. "I love you Sam and I'll even forgive you for the vegetables on this sandwich." His face took on a strange look as he chewed. "Is this real bacon?" he asked suspicious of the limp strip.

"Yea. Medications must be affecting your taste buds," Sam smoothly lied. "What I do for you," he muttered. "Just don't be expecting me to be carrying your fat white ass to safety, after you balloon up from eating that crap."

Callen, who was tearing into the sandwich like a hungry wolf on a fresh kill, mumbled, "Blessed metabolism. Remember."

Ray, who was contently chowing-down on his food, happily watched the two men banter. It was good for them, what they needed. He pushed the macaroni salad container towards Callen, along with a spoon, fork and bowl. Using the metal spoon, Callen dug out a big scoop and plopped it in the Corningware bowl, before shoving the carton towards Sam. Sam took a more moderated portion.

Partway thru the first half of the generous sandwich, Callen began to slow down. He only got down a few spoonful's of the salads he had taken, and Ray got the distinct feeling the only reason Callen finished the first half of his sandwich, was to spite Sam who was giving him a silent 'I told you, you weren't ready for solid food' look. Then like a bratty child, Callen peeled the bread back from the second half of the sandwich, took the bacon off and ate it before closing the sandwich up.

Sam was not nescient of his partner's antics, but took pity on him because Callen could barely remain upright in his chair. "Go lay down G; before you fall off that chair and crack your head open on Ray's nice clean floor."

Without a fight, remark or even smug smile, Callen got up and wandered down the hall. A few seconds later, the men heard a door shut.

"Guess that means you get the couch," Ray amusedly remarked to Sam.

"Won't be the first time," Sam replied good-naturedly in return. "Besides, he'll only be down for a few hours at best. Better hide your appliances."

Ray gave Sam a questioning look and Sam laughed. "Oh you don't know about that? Callen stayed here and your toaster is still intact?"

"He slept on the boat. Liked the privacy."

"And I'm guessing there is not a toaster on the boat."

"No. Does Callen have some sort of strange affinity for toasters?"

"All small appliances really," Sam lightly answered. "When he can't sleep, he likes to take things apart, and then put them back together, usually. He also practices his languages, plays chess with himself and reads esoteric literature."

Ray leaned back in his chair, thoroughly stuffed. "Huh. I guess that explains all the little things that were wrong with the Ripple, being mysteriously fixed."

"No doubt. When he woke up in the middle of the night, he probably fixed whatever he perceived as needing repairs on your boat."

"Good for me," Ray commented. "Not so good for Callen. Not being able to sleep, that is."

"Somehow he makes it work. Growing up the way he did," Sam gave a sympathetic shrug which said it all.

Ray rubbed the side of his forefinger across his lip, lost in thought. "I have met and evaluated many agents in my day. I think a few men are born to this line of work. I think he is one of them. Not that his childhood, which was a bit harsh from the little bit I have heard, didn't play a major role. However, even if Callen had been raised by some Midwestern farmer, I think he still would have become an agent."

"I don't know," Sam admitted. "But it is in his DNA." Sam went on to tell Ray a little about Callen's family history since Nate had told him Ray was cleared.

"Interesting," Ray said thoughtfully. "I vaguely recall hearing of Callen's mother. I was on tap to evaluate her, after she returned to the states. An honor I felt, considering how long I'd been with the agency at that point in my career. But, as you know it never came to pass. I heard some chatter on what had happened, not much though. It was hushed up and shut down quickly." Ray looked down the hallway towards his guest bedroom. "Imagine that. So he is one of the children. I had heard there was also a girl? His sister?"

"Dead. Drowned, as a child, in foster care. He never knew her. They were split up."

Ray looked puzzled. "Why? Usually the system tries to keep siblings together for some stability."

Sam finished up his last few mouthfuls of coleslaw while, he thought over his reply. "Safety I think. Callen has been a marked man since he was five years old. Just he didn't realize it, until recently. But I think Hetty knew. Do you know her nickname?"

Ray genuinely laughed. "Not a fair question. I have heard her called many things during my time with the agency. Many were not, shall we say, complimentary."

"And most," Sam said philosophically, "which were probably accurate. Callen suspects and I agree with him that Hetty knows more about his past then she lets on. Every now and then she dribbles out small details."

"If she knows things about his past, why doesn't she just tell him?"

"I have no clue. She and Callen have had some intense battles of the wills over it. Callen doesn't do well when the truth is kept from him, whether on a mission or in his personal life. Hetty thinks it is not the right time to tell him, whatever she knows. To be fair, she once offered to let him see this file on him that she keeps locked up. In the end, he respected her wishes and didn't look at it."

Sam reflected back on when Callen had mentioned his visit to Hetty's house, when she had been injured, and the file. It had not been an easy conversation, and Sam could see how conflicted Callen was on the whole situation; the fact Hetty had a 'secret' file, had on him. Sam had been frankly surprised and pleased Callen had even mentioned the episode to him. He felt it had drawn them closer as partners, to be able to discuss something of that nature.

"I don't know if Hetty is right or wrong, but I can tell you Callen, in his heart, doesn't know either. So he keeps pushing on, day-by-day, trying to dig up his past, while surviving his present. I only hope he makes it to his future. This whole thing with Joelle..." Sam let his strained voice trail off. "Michelle and I thought this would be so good for him. Instead, we just hurt him like everyone else in his life."

Ray realized that there was some psychological clean up required here so he put on his proverbial doctor's hat. "Yep. You deliberately set up your partner and best friend with a psycho that wanted to kill you because she hated your wife. You endangered your wife and yourself for that matter. As for Callen, well you added another nail in the coffin that is Callen's damaged psyche. What the hell were you thinking, Sam?"

Ray watched the emotions travel across Sam's countenance as he processed thru what had been said. At first, Sam was taken back by the bluntness of the words and his face displayed anger. Next came guilt when the words sunk in a bit more. Finally, came what Ray was waiting for resignation; acceptance that what had happened was done in good faith. That he and Michelle had Callen's best interests in heart when they introduced him to Joelle, and it was fate, nothing deliberate on their part, that had caused the tragedy. Ray knew one thing for sure, if Sam and Michelle ever decided to play match maker again, Callen's date would be run through every database, criminal and otherwise, twice. If she even had an unpaid parking ticket, she would never see Callen's beautiful baby blues in person.

Grinning and scowling at the same time, Sam said, "You're right, but I still feel guilty."

"And that is natural. You feel bad, intentional or not, that he," Ray jerked his chin towards the hallway, "got hurt. No one wants to see their family and best friend get hurt, physically or mentally."

"He is my brother," Sam sincerely echoed. "And just like a brother, sometimes I want to kill him, but underneath I always love him."

"And that is what Hetty did right when she paired up a seemingly 'Odd Couple'. It was really genius on her part."

"Yea. Well she doesn't have to deal with his 'genius' 24/7," Sam drily remarked.

Ray laughed and they switched to lighter topics, as they cleaned up the food. The daylight faded and Sam found he kept unintentionally yawning. Ray caught on quick and suggested they call it a night. After supplying Sam with bedding for the couch, he headed back to his bedroom, passing the still shut door, of the guest room. He hoped, for once, Callen was having a restful night, giving his mind and a body a chance to regroup, something he definitely needed to continue healing and moving forward.


	24. Chapter 24

Sam woke with a groan, as a streak of sunlight found a way thru the almost closed curtains and managed to fall right on his face, rudely awakening him. To add to the morning's rocky start, his muscles let their complaints be known, as he creakily sat up on the sofa bed. Sam was pretty sure sofa beds were designed by the same person who thought up the medieval torture device known as the rack.

He fumbled to the bathroom and on his way back down the hallway, he knocked lightly, and after receiving no acknowledgement, opened the door and peered into the room where Callen was supposed to be sleeping. The fact he found it empty did not surprise Sam in the least. The question was, where had his wayward partner had gotten to, though he had a hunch.

Wandering back towards the kitchen, he heard Ray moving around in the back of the condo and shortly he joined Sam. A Keurig pod and five minutes later, Sam was gratefully sipping from a cup of strong, hot coffee. For some reason his mind wandered, thinking about the way Callen liked his coffee; light and sweet, which to Sam, always seemed at odds with the man who drank it. A little snicker inadvertently escaped his lips.

"Something you'd like to share?" Ray asked curiously as he took his freshly made cup of coffee out from under the spout.

"Callen drinks his coffee, light and sweet. You're a shrink. What do you make of that?" Sam asked, his face a mask of innocence.

"Well," Ray said after a contemplative pause, "It is my professional opinion his personality type would lean more towards straight and strong. The fact he uses milk..."

"Tons of it," Sam helpfully interjected.

"... and sugar..."

"Real sugar. Heaping spoonfuls."

"... leads me to believe he drinks it that way simply to irk somebody. I suspect your partner really doesn't care how his coffee is prepared. The fact he drinks it light and sweet, at least in your presence, tells me he is jerking your chain," Ray finished conclusively. "Because actually, he told me he hates coffee and when he is forced to drink it, he dilutes it as much as possible. He told me he much prefers tea."

"Son of a bitch," Sam swore vehemently.

Ray nodded as he took a sip from his mug. "Have to admit, I didn't peg him as a tea kind-of guy."

"Yea. Ever consider maybe he is running a game on you Doc? Messing with your mind too," Sam slyly suggested.

Ray paused mid-sip, his eyes narrowing.

"Ah-huh," Sam cockily grinned. "Let me guess how it went down. You offered him a cup of coffee. He asked you, 'out of curiosity'," Sam made air quotes with his forefingers, "how you thought he drank his coffee. You, of course, said 'straight and strong'. Then he told you he really likes tea."

Sam smiled at the look on Ray's face, when he realized he had been had by Callen. "And he told you it had to be loose tea, cause otherwise he could taste the paper."

Now it was Ray's turn to curse. "Son of a bitch. He was playing me and I didn't even know it," Ray complained, but without malice. "I think I understand what Nate was saying now, about how frustrating Callen can be."

"Welcome to my world," Sam joked. "You should be stuck in a car, on a stakeout with him for ten hours. You don't even want to know about the tootsie pops."

"The candy?"

Sam grabbed a banana from Ray's fruit bowl and began to peel it. "Yea. Nothing like some personal experience with Callen to make a shrink rethink his career choice."

"But his ability, to deceive people so effortlessly," Ray explained, grabbing a box of cereal from the cabinet and plopping it and bowls in front of Sam, "...is what makes Callen so good at his job." He added spoons and milk to the table, than sat down across from Sam.

"Yep," Sam agreed, as he poured a bowl of cereal, and then sliced the earlier pilfered banana on top, before adding milk. "Wouldn't want anyone else having my back in the field."

"Speaking of your partner, should we check on him? See if he wants some breakfast?" Ray asked as he started to rise from his chair.

"No need. He already ate and is gone, though is it still called breakfast if you eat it at 2:00 am and consists of last night's leftovers?" Sam asked academically.

Ray sat back down, puzzled.

Sam sighed, and then patiently began to explain the nuances that were Callen. "If you look in the dishwasher, you will find a used coffee mug, maybe a glass, probably a fork and or spoon. In the trash you will find an empty coffee pod, a few paper-towels, the empty wrapper from the other half of his sandwich and," Sam paused a second, obviously conducting an internal debate, "I'd say the empty macaroni container. Coleslaw and potato salad are too close to vegetables, for my crap swilling partner."

Driven by sheer curiosity, Ray had to get up and confirm what Sam predicted, and after looking in the fridge, dishwasher and even the trash, he simply said, "Damn," then joined Sam back at the table.

Sam had the good graces not to smile, too much, while he finished his bowl of cereal.

"So where is he? Did he take off again?" Ray's tone carried his disappointment at the thought.

Sam finished the last mouthful of banana, then set his spoon down in the bowl and leaned back in his chair. He swiftly ran thru a few options in his mind, until the right one hit him. However, he didn't immediately answer Ray's inquiry, rather asked him a question of his own. "If Hetty agrees, can we camp out here, with you, for a few more days?"

Ray was quick to acquiesce. "Of course. As long as you want. Callen saved my life after all."

"And he wouldn't expect you to let him stay here, because of that," Sam shot back.

Ray shook his head. "No sorry. I didn't mean it that way."

Sam gave him a tight smile, and Ray realized this big guy wasn't above busting his chops too. "You're both are welcome to stay."

"Thanks. To answer your question, Callen is on your boat fixing it," Sam finally explained.

"Why?"

"You're the shrink. You tell me," Sam challenged.

Ray set his spoon down on the kitchen table as he thought it thru. "Ok, let me take a stab at this. Callen is not ready to go back yet, face the team's sympathy or apologize to Hetty for disappearing."

Sam snorted. "G will never apologize to her."

"Not directly, no. But indirectly he will. So Callen needs a good reason to stay away a little longer. Because you are here, he is not going to run off again."

"Cause I'll kill him when I find him," Sam vehemently interjected.

"And he can't bring himself to admit mentally or physically, that he is not ready to return. So he needs an excuse, that doesn't involve him," Ray correctly theorized.

Sam nodded with Ray's suppositions. "So," he gently prompted.

"So," Ray echoed, buying time while his mind sought a solution; then it dawned on him. "So he is down on the Ripple, fixing her up! When asked, he'll say I am not sufficiently recovered from my heart attack to do it alone," he concluded with a flourish and a huge grin.

"As one of my weird team-mates would say, "Give the man kewpie doll."

Ray's face grew serious. "While this might be good for Callen mentally, give him more time to rationalize this whole Joelle issue..."

"You mean bury it behind his steel walls, in a concrete vault, and deny it affected him," Sam edged in.

"Not exactly how I would recommend he handle the situation, but none-the-less I believe you are accurate in your portrayal of your partner's behavior. That aside, physically Sam, Callen is not up to the task of restoring the Ripple. He's going to further aggravate his injuries."

"If he hasn't already," Sam said pushing up from the table and carrying his dirty dishes to the sink. A quick rinse and then he placed them in the dishwasher. "That's why I am heading over there, right after I brush my teeth. See what sort of mess he managed to get himself into before," Sam glanced at his military style wristwatch, "8:00 am in the morning."

"Shall I join you?" Ray asked, starting to rise from chair again.

"Give me an hour or two. I don't want any witnesses around while I beat some sense into that concussed grey matter between his ears," Sam said with a rather evil grin.

Sam disappeared down the hall, leaving Ray to ponder the weird relationship that was Callen and Sam.


	25. Chapter 25

The first thing Sam saw, when he stepped onto the aft deck of the Ripple, was a wadded up t-shirt, which appeared to have been kicked into the corner. Recognizing it as one of Callen's preferred styles, he picked it up and critically examined the blood stain on the side of it; right where Callen's knife wound was located. It wasn't a huge spot, but enough to confirm to Sam that Callen was pushing himself too hard, too fast, as usual. Sam heard a noise behind him and turned in time to see Callen emerging from the Ripple's cabin, pulling a new t-shirt over his head. A fleeting expression of guilt flashed across Callen's face when Sam asked, "Did you stop the bleeding, or are you going to ruin that shirt too." As Callen started to deny it, Sam simply held aloft the bloody shirt, he picked up from the deck.

Callen, the chameleon, quickly changed tactics; denial was not an option so he went for misdirection. "That shirt has been there for days. Since the attack," he boldly lied.

Sam shook his head slowly and sadly. "Really G. Is that your best shot? Cause if it is, I know your brain is still offline. Last time I checked, old blood is dark red, almost brown, like me. Fresh blood is bright red, like you with a sun-burn. You're not color-blind, and neither am I. And this stain," Sam held the shirt aloft again, "looks like a brand new red corvette, straight off the show room floor."

Callen shifted his weight, as he placed his hands on his jean-clad, slim hips. "Ok. Maybe I got a little too enthusiastic..."

"... at 4:00 am in the morning," Sam slid in the jibe.

Callen glared at Sam as he continued. "...fixing one of the bullet holes in the hull."

"Ah-huh. You're lucky you didn't fall into the water and drown," Sam drily pointed out as tossed the dirty shirt at Callen.

Callen easily caught it. "I can swim. I swam out of the sub didn't I?"

"Actually. I think your fat just carried you to the surface."

Looking indignant, Callen declared, "I'm not fat."

Sam gave a derisive snort. "As the guy who spends half his life carrying your ass out of danger, I'll be the judge of that."

Callen had his retort on his lips, when his knees unexpectedly began to buckle. In a flash, Sam was at his side supporting him and preventing him from crashing to the deck. Callen cursed his traitorous body, as Sam carefully helped him over to the fishing chair. Callen gratefully sank into the seat, which was better than sprawling face first on the deck, even if he had mopped them clean already this morning.

Sam raised his eyebrows at Callen, who laid his head back and closed his eyes. "Pushed it a tad too much this morning did we?"

Without opening his eyes, Callen raised his right hand, and with his thumb and forefinger, indicated a small measurement. "Maybe. A little," he grudgingly conceded.

Sam dropped into the other chair, and spun it to face Callen. "I talked to Hetty this morning. She said we could stay here the rest of the week; help Ray get the boat back in shape. After all, it is his livelihood. But I guess you were channeling Hetty, since you were already out here, doing exactly that."

Callen rolled his head onto his left shoulder. "Mm-hmmm," he hummed, raising the pitch of the last few 'm's, as was his style.

"Of course," Sam continued in the infuriating tone he used when talking to Callen about medical issues, "you won't be able to help much if I'm to take you back to the hospital because you had a relapse. And don't say I wouldn't dare because you know I would."

Callen, who had been about to say that, wisely remained quiet.

Without warning, because that was always the best way to do anything medically related to Callen, Sam reached over and laid his hand on his partner's forehead. "Hot," he proclaimed. "You're running a fever."

"You're not my mother," Callen muttered, his standard reply, as he jerked his head away.

Standing up, Sam reached into his pocket withdrawing two pill bottles which he noisily rattled in Callen direction like a pair of maracas. "Did we, _perhaps,_ forget to take our meds?" Before Callen could formulate an answer, because the only a right one was 'yes', Sam was off to the cabin, to snag a bottle of water. He came back out with three pills in his hand and stood menacingly over Callen. "Take these now," he shoved the pills and the water into Callen's personal space.

Callen, to his credit, took the pills without argument; though Sam stood over him until he was satisfied Callen actually swallowed them.

"You could have at least coated them with peanut-butter or wrapped them in cheese. That's what we did for Buddy," Callen kvetched as he took another swig of water.

Sam retook his seat in the other chair. "Buddy? The dog you had on assignment? The one your wife ran off with?"

Callen gave a little 'whatever' shrug. "Always seemed like a more civilized manner in which to deal with pills."

"Fine," Sam sarcastically replied. "Next time I have to give you a pill, I will coat it in peanut-butter, grab you by the muzzle, force your mouth open, shove the pill down your throat, hold your mouth closed and stroke your throat until you swallow."

Callen gave him a rather cold glare. "I was only asking for a little consideration." Suddenly, Callen's eyes narrowed, as his mind realized an out of place fact. "Wait, you showed me two bottles, but made me swallow three pills."

"Maybe one pill required a double dose," Sam casually answered.

One of Callen's talents was good recall. "No, that's not the right, because each pill was different in size, shape and color."

"Oh," Sam said like he had a great revelation. "That's right. You mean this pill." He pulled a third bottle out of his pant's pocket. "The one that Hetty gave me, before I left, because she knows you _too _well."

Dread colored Callen's voice. "What does it do?"

"Not much, well other than knock you out for about four hours. And don't," Sam added when he saw the slightest twitch in Callen's body, "even think of trying to vomit them up." The small sag in Callen's posture told Sam he had been on the mark with Callen's next move.

Callen turned away, but not before Sam saw the small glint of fear in his partner's blue eyes. "G," he said compassionately, "Hetty said they are not that strong. You'll be able to wake up, if you need to. I'm your partner. I wouldn't do that do you."

Callen gave a small, appreciative nod, knowing exactly to what Sam was referring. Callen wasn't invincible, things scared him too and his greatest fear was loss of control over his mind, his body and his actions. When he was drugged, and couldn't get his mind or body to obey his commands, it terrified the agent. While he had managed to keep a grip on himself when it had occasionally happened in the field, when he had been taken prisoner, the trauma also left him very unsettled. It was like the nightmares that haunted his sleep. If he could wake up from them, when he wanted too, force himself back to consciousness, he could bear them; not like them, but at least suffer through them without losing his mind. When drugged, he lost that ability.

"I promise. I'll wake you up if needed. I won't let you suffer G," Sam said zeroing in on the issue.

Callen smiled gratefully, which turned into a yawn. "Thanks," he said as he rose from the chair, heading towards the cabin. "The stuff, over there," he gestured to a pile of supplies, "is to patch the bullet holes. You like to work with wood. She is a wooden ship. Have at it." With that, Callen disappeared into the cabin, flopped on the couch, and drifted off into a drug induced nap.

The rest of the morning went smoothly. Sam began working on repairing the Ripple, while keeping his promise and checking on Callen. Once, he found his friend in the throes of a bad dream and he gently woke him. Callen had lightly surfaced, which must have broken the nightmare because the blond simply rolled over and went back into a more peaceful slumber.

Ray showed up mid-morning and joined in fixing the repairs. At first, Sam kept a weather-eye on Ray too, but it turned out to be unnecessary. Unlike stubborn Callen, Ray seemed to get the concept of recovery, and the man rested before he pushed his healing body too far.

"So Ray," Sam started conversationally as they worked side-by-side repairing the bullet holes on the bridge. "How do you know Hetty?"

Ray stopped spreading the putty in the hole and glanced over the rail at the other boats bobbing in the marina. "I really don't know her. Never met her. But in any organization, there are rumors and whisperings, of those that are exceptionally talented or those that use extremely unorthodox methods."

Sam let out a lazy smile. "I think Hetty falls into both of those categories."

Ray nodded in concurrence. "From what I have heard over the years, and during the ten minutes I spoke to her on the phone the other day, I'd have to agree. Nate and I, on the hand, go way back. I was his mentor when he joined. We have kept in loose contact over the years, never officially worked together, until now I guess. if you consider this a 'mission'," he air quoted.

"Sam gave a small snort. "Mission. Vacation. Saving my dumb-ass partner from himself...again," Sam said with a touch of bitterness that Ray picked up on.

Ray turned and looked Sam square in the face. "You're still upset. By Callen running, aren't you Sam."

Sam put down the putty knife and sat back on his heels. "To be honest, yea I am. Angry and upset."

"And you know what? That is perfectly understandable. And you shouldn't feel the least bit guilty," Ray compassionately explained and the small twitch in Sam's check told him he had hit the target on the mark.

Sam scowled slightly. "Well I do feel guilty. I know who Callen is, what drives him and yet I still keep thinking he will change. And then when he does something like this, it makes me angry. At him and at myself."

"Because you want Callen to come to you to work out his issues. Not go it alone. SEALS are a team. SEALS have each other's back. SEALS never go it alone," Ray correctly surmised.

"Exactly!" Sam said slamming his fist into his leg. "Haven't I shown him over and over I have his back? That he can trust me? And yet when he gets backed into an emotional corner, he still goes lone wolf on me!"

"And do you think he doesn't know that? That you care about him? That you don't want him to run?" Ray pointedly asked the upset man.

"Well if he does," Sam grumbled, grimacing and looking down at the deck, "He has a funny way of showing it."

"Oh come on Sam. You don't really believe that do you. Deep in your heart you know Callen trusts you more than anyone else in his life. And I mean that Sam. Anyone. Do you know what a huge feat that is Sam?" Ray paused and glanced back at the water. "When you came into that hospital room, he immediately calmed down. When you touched him on the shoulder the other day, when he was upset, he didn't flinch at all but totally accepted your comfort and concern. And those are just two little things I have noticed since you arrived." Ray looked back over at Sam. "Those are huge indicators of Callen trust in you. If I hadn't seem them myself, I wouldn't think it was possible. The man I met on a bench a few weeks ago gave every indication he could never trust anyone that deeply. Yet he does...you."

Sam sat quietly, digesting the words that Ray said. "You're right Doc. And I should stop thinking Callen will ever truly change. Isn't that a sign on insanity? Doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results? Am I insane?" he lightly asked Ray.

Ray laughed out loud. "You'd have to be to survive your partner. You guys are both insane, but you make it work for you. Gotta love that." With that, Sam picked up his tools and started working again and they passed the rest of the morning in lighter topics of conversations

In the afternoon, Callen woke up, and after eating, joined Sam and Ray on the repairs. The rest of the week went mostly the same. Callen would always be gone in the morning by the time Ray and Sam got up, and after the two men ate breakfast, they would stroll over to the docks and join Callen, who had already put in a few hours of work. Sam would argue with Callen that he wasn't resting and would threaten Hetty's pills and Callen would go right back at him about 'mothering'. Ray had quickly learned there was no malice in any of these exchanges, and that they were actually a 'manly' form of care and concern.

Throughout the day, Sam and Callen would have these little sessions, where one started razzing on the other, insults would fly and threats would be issued, but not acted upon, usually. Ray came to learn it was all part of their shtick. However, when there was a perceived hint of danger, these two were all about having each other's backs, and Ray had seen it in action.

The three of them had been working on the boat one afternoon, when a gunshot was heard on a boat moored a few docks over. Callen and Sam had gone immediately on point, drawing their guns that Ray hadn't even realized they were carrying, and scurrying down the dock towards the gunfire. He had watched them, like a Swiss watch, move in unconscious precision to apprehend the gunman. It turned out to be a misunderstanding; the man had been cleaning his weapon when it went off, which earned him a stern, and frankly, scary lecture from Sam, one Ray was sure the man would never, ever forget. By the time the police arrived on the scene, the two had holstered their weapons. They melted back into the small crowd that had gathered, and then disappeared back over to the Ripple. Ray had been impressed by the whole thing and it really cemented in his mind what a great partnership Hetty had formed in Sam and Callen.

At the end of the week, when the Ripple had been restored to her former glory, the three of them took her on a test run. With food and drink, they headed out into the Pacific. As the time drifted into the night, one of the shore towns had a fireworks display, which the three men enjoyed sitting off the coast, well at least Ray did. He wondered if the noise of the fireworks hit too close to home at times for the field agents.

Ray was actually a bit sad when the week was up and the two men indicated they had to return to work. It had been nice to have company in the evenings as they sat on the deck, eating and swapping tales. He had enjoyed the work-related stories, the ones they had been able to share, and had come to look forward to the verbal exchanges, like two brothers bickering. Callen had definitely played some mind games on him, some which Ray caught onto and others, he was sure, that went right past him.

Ray knew Sam had been trying to have some serious conversations, with Callen, about the Joelle incident and they hadn't gone well. One night, in frustration, Sam had sought Ray out in his professional capacity to lament about Callen. It frustrated Sam that Callen dealt with his personal issues by double wrapping them in brown paper and putting tape around them like they were classified media, then shoving them in the far reaches of the compartmentalized vault that was G Callen's mind. Sam wanted Callen to talk; Callen wanted to remain silent.

Ray had done his best to try to ease Sam's frustrations, though what he was telling Sam, he knew wasn't new to the man. Sam was an astute judge of the human character in his own regards and knew exactly how and why his partner dealt with his feelings the way he did; he just didn't like it. It didn't fit with his SEAL mentality. So Ray knew Sam hadn't come to him for help really, more for sympathetic ear, which Ray provided.

Sunday morning, they shook hands outside the condo, and Ray had told them they were welcome back at any time, and they thanked him, though all parties involved knew it was highly unlikely to occur. The two agents had gotten into the car and headed out to the highway to make the long drive back to LA.

The trip back wasn't too bad, except for the traffic when they got close to the city. Callen napped off and on, which told Sam his partner was still not fully recovered. Sam vowed to keep a slightly closer eye on the man over the next week or so, to make sure he didn't overdo it. Of course, Hetty would be there too, so it would be two on one, better odds.

It was pretty late when he dropped Callen off at his house. Sam offered to pick him up in the morning to carpool to work, but Callen had politely refused him. Sam didn't argue, said goodnight, and drove off.

Once inside, Callen made a quick recon of the house to make sure everything was in order. While he was doing that, his stomach let out a huge grumble. Wandering into the kitchen, he knew his tummy was going to be disappointed. After being gone for more than a month, any food that was not boxed, canned or sealed, wasn't going to be edible and Callen didn't have much into that fit those categories under the best of times. There might be a box of cereal in the cupboards, but any milk would have turned into a science experiment.

Bracing himself for a bowl of dry, cold cereal, he opened the cabinet and was surprised when a multitude of boxed and canned goods were stocked neatly on the shelves. With a growing suspicion, he opened a few more and found them equally well supplied. Yanking open the fridge door, with a little less dread then he had a few minutes ago, he found that too, was a cornucopia of edibles. Gratefully, he grabbed some fresh cold cuts, bread, mayo and even lettuce and made himself a nice thick sandwich. With a glass of fresh, non-expired milk, he wandered into the living room, flopped in his favorite chair and enjoyed his repast.

Actually, when it came to food, Callen would eat just about anything. When you grew up like he did, you couldn't afford to be fussy, not if you didn't want to starve. He even liked vegetables, a lot, but simply enjoyed busting Sam and his co-workers chops too much to openly admit it; rather like the coffee, tea scam.

Callen wasn't stupid and knew exactly who he should be thanking for his well-stocked kitchen. He was grateful she did it and equally grateful she hadn't taken the opportunity to forth redecorate his house; she had been known to do that in the past when he was AWOL. He thought of it as her punishment to him, when he disobeyed her and had the nerve to disappear. When he came back, and he always had so far, she had civilized his house a bit more.

Content, he drank the last dregs of milk, set the glass on his lone side table then drifted off to sleep in the chair.


	26. Chapter 26

_Author's Final Note: I'm sorry to say this tale has come to its conclusion. I hope you have enjoyed it as much as I did re-reading each chapter everyday before posting (gosh that sounds hubris). I can't thanks everyone enough for all the helpful (and ego boosting) reviews along the way. It has really been wonderful._

_When you complete this chapter, consider leaving one final review on your overall impression of the story; likes, dislikes, drifting from canon, etc. Even an old dog can learn to improve. _

_I know a few of you were hoping for the words "To Be Continued" rather than "The End" and sorry, you are going to be disappointed; this tale just feels complete to me. However, I have taken fingers to the screen (the modern equivalent of pen to the paper) and started the next story. However, you know I am not a fast writer (think turtle in peanut-butter patch typing with three fingers), so hang in there. I promise, I will be back. And those of you that create, please keep writing your wonderful FF. I so love to read a good Callen story!_

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><p>Sam wasn't surprised, when he entered the bullpen, to see he was the second to last person to arrive. It had been a long drive, they had gotten home late, and if Callen was as tired as he had been, his partner wouldn't roll into until about 10:00. Sam had spent an extra few minutes with his family in this morning, making up for his absence, hence his late arrival. He hadn't seen Hetty at her desk as he strolled by, but Kensi and Deeks were in the bullpen and cheerfully greeted him, while simultaneous busting his chops on his tardiness.<p>

As Sam predicted, just shy of 10:00, Callen strolled into the bullpen, where he was greeted warmly with a hug by Kensi, a firm handshake and chop-busting by Deeks and after a quick scrutiny by Sam, small nod of acknowledgment; Sam thought his partner overall looked well-rested and alert.

"So, pirates," Deeks drawled, after Callen had sat down at his desk. "Did they wear red bandanas and carry a cutlass?"

"Actually, Deeks," Callen's replied without even glancing up from his laptop screen, "they looked like you, just better groomed."

Deeks face fell to resemble that of a wounded puppy. "That really wasn't fair. I'm a very neat person."

Kensi gave a very unladylike like snort. "Only I your dreams. Wait, I take that back. I am sure they are messy too."

"Yeah, well at least my dreams not include unicorns and garden gnomes," Deeks retorted and Kensi gave him a hurt, shocked look.

"That was only once, and I told that to you in confidence," Kensi hissed.

"My bad," Deeks replied even though it was clear to everyone he was not the least bit contrite. Turning his attention back on Callen's, he asked in his best Johnny Depp voice, "So tell us of your adventures on the high seas matey."

Sam rolled his eyes and said, "I'll give you an adventure."

"What?," Deeks complained. "Callen's boat gets hijacked by modern day pirates and you fault me for wanting to hear the details?"

To try halt any further inane discussions, Kensi turned her chair towards Callen. "You know if you don't tell him he will be impossible to deal with the rest of the day."

Callen sighed, then regaled them with his tale of his advsntures on the high-seas. He glossed over part where he got injured, but a glance in Sam's direction told him he wasn't fooling his partner.

"Only you go on a pleasure cruise and run into pirates off the coast of California," Sam remarked, his tone weary. His partner was a walking trouble magnet. "I'm surprised you haven't been injured getting your morning coffee."

Callen got a smug look on his face. "Actually I did, once in Russia. It was only a flesh wound. Some crazy Russian ordered this complicated coffee, and the server got it wrong. So the nut job pulls out a gun and starts waving it around."

"And you had to stop him," Sam remarked drily.

"Of course," Callen replied as if Sam was crazy for even asking. "How else was I going to get my morning coffee."

"So you got shot and hauled away in an ambulance, and you didn't get your cup of coffee after all."

"That's where you are wrong Sam. This was Russia. The medics gave me a band-aid and the store owner was so grateful, he gave me free coffee for life." Callen sat back in his chair looking very pleased with himself.

"Good to know, if we are ever in Russia. That you can get free coffee though I thought you prefer tea, the loose kind," Sam sarcastically remarked.

Callen shrugged. "I'm adaptable." Further conversation was halted by a summonings.

"Mr. Callen. A word," drifted over the bullpen, and 'she who must be obeyed', beckoned. Good-naturedly, Callen went to take whatever Hetty was going to dish out. He supposed he had it coming.

It was a rather civilized had offered him a cup of tea, which he wisely accepted and she had inquired about his physical well-being, which he answered truthfully with only a few minor omissions.

With the civilized part of the ritual over, she then laid into him about being AWOL, having to use government resources to track him down, reminding him that the SF-71 was the proper way to take leave, which, by-the-way, was supposed to be submitted and signed by the supervisor before the leave was taken and finally provided a threat as to what would happen to his body and soul if he ever did this again.

Callen sat there, nodded in the right places, and tried to keep a smug smile from appearing on his face. Luckily, the clanking of a cow-bell, followed by a 'let's moooooove it' drifted across the room as Eric found another way to alert them they had a new case. Leaving Hetty behind, Callen happily sprinted for the stairs and back to what passed as normalcy for him and his team.

THE END


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